


Book-wyrm

by Act_Naturally



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bofur's Hat - Freeform, Crack Treated Seriously, Dragon Bilbo Baggins, Friendship, Gen, Not a skin-changer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Act_Naturally/pseuds/Act_Naturally
Summary: You know the clichéd Bilbo-the-dragon-skin-changer stories? Let’s do something a bit different.Dragons are less endangered than most people would prefer. Dwarves are twitchy about that sort of thing, but Gandalf isn’t going to let that stop him, because there’s one dragon that’s a hobbit where it counts, and it’s not in his appearance.Bilbo Baggins is not particularly ancient, or the lone member of a once great race of skin changers. He wasn’t cursed, he’s not on probation. He hasn’t got a grudge to fulfil or a debt to repay. He's a dragon, and that's not the type of thing that's easy to hide.





	1. A rocky start

**Author's Note:**

> Google 'Abyssal high dragon' if you want to know what he looks like. I've been writing this thing on and off for years. I'm currently stuck at a writer's block, so I'm just going to post it and hope that inspiration flows in through comments. I have 40 000 words ready to go, which is about halfway. I will release them as I finish editing. Expect about 1 chapter a week.

* * *

Belladonna Baggins was surely the oddest hobbit in the Shire, but even to her, finding thirteen heavily armoured dwarves on her doorstep was not a common occurrence. Although, it was not entirely unprecedented, so the old hobbit recovered quickly and straightened with surprising ease, "My household will not be entertaining any thrill seekers today, thank you. Find your sport elsewhere. I hear the bears are reliable this time of year." She waggled a finger because that made the proclamation sterner, somehow, and went to shut the door.

"One moment, dear Bella."

She paused and craned her head. A tall figure leaned in from the side. She smiled, "Gandalf, I should have recognised your hand in this." But honesty it was tea time and of all the rude ways to interrupt a meal… well, Gandalf should know better.

"You are brighter every time I see you, my friend. Might we discuss matters indoors?" Gandalf's eye's crinkled deeply.

She huffed. "Flattery will get you scones at least. Come in. Though, might I know _why_ I'm entertaining this evening?" she dryly suggested. A dwarf muttered something about food and the flood commenced. "Just a suggestion," she yelled around the corner at the retreating figures.

When Belladonna received no reply, she followed with a shrug.

…

"When will we meet our fourteenth member, Gandalf?" Balin asked.

"Bilbo doesn't keep facilities to accommodate guests, I'm afraid," Gandalf lit his pipe and sat back with a sigh. "But Belladona and Bungo Baggins are his family and very good friends of mine, I thought they might put us up in his stead."

Balin frowned. "Thorin won't like it. He had planned to set out early. When will we meet him?"

"Soon." When there was not enough time to back out. "After Thorin arrives, we will meet Bilbo for dinner. That should break the ice nicely. He does a good roast. Just don't get gravy on the books."

"The books?"

"Bilbo lives in a library." Gandalf eyed the tarts and apples sailing through the air between dwarves, and frowned thoughtfully. "It may be safer to eat outside."

"I'll say," Belladonna scolded. "He'll knock you flat if you get crumbs between the pages."

Dwalin straightened, with the look of a person who'd just caught an unexpected break. "He has some fighting experience, then? Does he prefer an axe or sword?"

The hobbit blinked slowly. "He dislikes both. Why do you ask?"

A dwarf on the sidelines turned a guarded look on the wizard, "You said he agreed to the quest."

"I said he _would_ , Master Balin." A smoke ring merrily circled the lantern.

"Aye, and I assumed that meant you would _ask_."

"All in due time."

A red haired one hummed thoughtfully, eyeing the foreign trinkets on the mantelpiece. He turned to the host. "Is burglary a family occupation?" Belladonna had collected them on her travels many years ago, but that wasn't the point.

Dwarves had a history with Bilbo's kind and, shall we say, 'disputes over the of ownership of valuables'. They sought him now on the word of a cagey wizard who'd labelled him a – " _Burglar?_ Really, Gandalf, don't you think that's a _bit_ insensitive?"

The wizard puffed out a smoke ring and nodded gravely. Belladonna suspected he wasn't listening.

It was just as well Bilbo could handle himself, or Belladonna might feel guilty letting him sort out this mess.

Perhaps she'd go watch.

…

It was late, and Thorin still had not shown. Gandalf measured the consequences of dropping in on Bilbo while he was sleeping against Thorin's ire, and easily decided to leave directions with Belladonna.

Twelve dwarves and a wizard set off into the night. "This may require some diplomacy," the wizard warned them. His voice invited no objections. "You will let me greet him first."

The jovial chatter dropped off, many of the Company reached for their weapons. Gandalf quickly clarified; " _Not_ dwarven diplomacy."

They grumbled, disappointed.

"A library," Dori muttered disparagingly. "What kind of thief makes such a place his den of inequity? It's unnatural, and that surely must be worse than the regular kind. Nori, get away from Ori."

"What kind indeed," Gandalf muttered. "It's a lovely place, cut into the side of large hill. Very spacious. It's the greatest collection in a thousand miles, you know –"

"What's that?" Kili interrupted.

"Those green spots? It looks like the glow-worm cave. Do you remember the one?" Fili answered. "It's moving though. What's that silhouette?"

"Dragon!" Dwalin roared. He shoved the princes, "Go! Run for the ponies, I'll buy you time!"

"Brother!"

"Cousin!"

The dwarves charged.

Gandalf swung his staff out to trip them, but he was too late. "No, you fools!"

It was one thing to hear stories of a dragon's great strength and size. It was another altogether to unexpectedly encounter a beast that could squash a dwarf with a single finger.

The dragon was heavily armoured, only it's belly was slightly weaker than the rest, though that mattered little because even a tall man would have trouble reaching it.

It stood, balanced on its four legs, and stretched a pair of vast wings out wide. It tilted its head, framed by bulky horns that swept out and forward, pointing to the sky. It opened its jagged mouth, showing many sharp teeth in a mighty – _yawn?_

Bilbo felt an axe glance off his scales in a shower of sparks. That would need sharpening later.

He squinted down at the panicking little creatures running around between his legs. Clearly, they weren't locals, but Bilbo did not have much experience with the customs of other races, it was very flustering to be put on the spot like this. He cleared his throat, bemused by the whole situation, and for lack of any ideas, decided to just treat them like hobbits.

He crouched and tilted his head, offering a horn. "May I hang your cloaks?"

The dwarves froze in various threatening poses, gaping at Bilbo like he'd handed them something they had no idea what to do with.

Oh dear. Perhaps dwarves didn't greet like men or elves, what if the axes held ceremonial significance and Bilbo had misread the whole situation?

This organised gathering smelt of adventure. But then the wizard arrived, which by itself removed all doubt.

"Put that away," the tall man rapped his staff against a sword as he passed, slightly out of breath. "There's no need for weapons here."

"Gandalf," the dragon said with ire.

His wrinkled face relaxed into a smile, a warm hand came to rest on the dragon's talon with surprising strength. "Bilbo," he said fondly, "it has been too long."

"Yes, yes, you never visit, you don't write. But there is hopeless communication between friends, and then there is springing twelve dwarves on a poor fellow without warning."

The infernal wizard coughed into his beard in what would've seemed like contrite, had Bilbo not known him so well. "Thirteen."

"Pardon?"

His eyes positively twinkled with mirth. "Their leader has yet to arrive. Come now, if I thought it would truly upset you, I would have given you at least enough time to flee. If not just for my own amusement."

Bilbo sighed. "I suppose you gave these dwarves as much consideration and warning. Honestly Gandalf."

Bilbo's front lawn was in a terrible state. His mailbox had been knocked over, the garden beds had been trampled with no consideration to the flowers. One dwarf had ripped a tree up to use as a club. Gandalf considered how much carnage one more dwarf could cause, and ceded the point. "Perhaps it would be best if someone warned our leader, Gloin, if you would locate him?"

In the end, nothing was broken, only trust and feelings were hurt, but Bilbo dragged out two boars and a deer, which went a way to mending bridges.

Bilbo sat himself away from the others out of curtesy – most beings didn't appreciate his table manners. He managed to pack down half the buck and some pastries (wherever those had come from) in record time, before his attention was required once more.

"What is the meaning of this?" Some of the Company had just started to believe they weren't the second course, but a glare from the late arrival set them straight. He was bristling with fury and suspicion. His followers dropped their food and hurried guiltily to his side. "You lead us here, under false pretences, to drop us in front of a _dragon_ without warning."

"False pretences, why, I never!" The wizard twinkled. "Ah, Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."

Bilbo perked up with a squeak, "Oakenshield! Oh you ridiculous wizard, why didn't you say so!"

Bilbo's instinctual grab at their leader didn't help interspecies relations at all.

Thankfully, Gandalf's dry remark stopped him before he could give chase. "Bilbo, some people do not appreciate being snatched up. Most people, actually."

Bilbo's cheeks flamed. He deliberately sat on his hands, cleared his throat, and settled for pinning the dwarf under his unnerving gaze. "Welcome, King of Durin's Folk. It's an honour."

Bilbo suspected Gandalf had known exactly how badly the surprise would fluster him. If Gandalf had wanted to save Bilbo's dignity, he would have given the dragon a week to get it out of his system.

But _Thorin Oakenshield_ was on his front yard! _Still!_ Bungo would club him with a frying pan if he caught wind of it.

"Come in, can I get you anything? Take your coat? I'm sure there's some food left – there's another chair around the eastern study, could you just – thank you, Master Dwarf, that's most helpful." Bilbo made good use of the confusion to herd the dwarves back to the fire before they knew what hit them. "You can leave your weapons on the table, or – yes, I can see why you may wish to keep them with you – guests' prerogative!"

Oakenshield shot Gandalf a disturbed look.

"Well, like I said, no being knows dragons better. Aside from personal experience, Bilbo is something of a scholar by trade," here the wizard gestured to the books and scrolls pilled on every surface. "Stories are his great passion. Adventure, intrigue…"

"Adventure, pah! That doesn't make a story." Bilbo snorted derisively. "I could recite a thousand tales along those lines and none would be as interesting as yours."

" _Interesting?_ " Oakenshield repeated menacingly.

Bilbo winced. Bad choice. Mustn't trivialise the darkest period of recent dwarven history. He quickly rephrased. Behind him, Gandalf chuffed merrily and got out his pipe. Sure, leave the dragon out to dry.

"When people lose both king and country they almost invariably crumble and disperse. But even a generation on, your people still name themselves dwarves of Erebor. It is purely due to your strength that your people withstood apathy and hunger, and your kingdom survives to this day. Somehow – remarkably – you carved out a new place in the world for an entire nation. _That_ is the part I find interesting."

Bilbo could smell agreement and pride on the Company, though they remained stubbornly frowning.

Thorin wouldn't quite meet anyone's gaze. Gruffly, he moved the conversation along. "We did not journey all this way for stories."

That certainly broke the mould of Gandalf's visits. A suspicion formed as more pieces were revealed to Bilbo's mind. He didn't think he was going to like it, but he reserved his judgement, hiding behind a genial smile, "So you're not seeking information; that is highly irregular. Why did Gandalf bring you here?"

"That, I would like to know," Thorin turned his glare to a party that was slightly more deserving of it. "Are the troubles that plague my kin a joke to you, wizard?"

Oakenshield was still poised to fight. Bilbo felt like a terrible host, making a guest so uneasy, but the wizard owned a share of the blame. The dragon clenched his fists and glared at Gandalf until he had the decency to look regretful, and then some more for good measure.

Bilbo was going to hang a low chandelier in every hall. See if he didn't.

He couldn't erase the dwarf's experience with his kind, but at least he could stop looming so much. It was a bit degrading but, well, someone had to make up for the dreadful treatment they'd put up with and the wizard clearly wasn't planning to. Bilbo stretched out his neck and lay his heavy head on the ground. That was as nonthreatening as it could get. He was still looking down at them, but that was something only Mahal could rectify; they only reached his nostrils.

"Do not let your preconceptions blind you, Thorin, if any being has a chance of winning victory for your quest, it is Bilbo." Thankfully, the dwarf didn't noticed how Bilbo twitched at the 'q' word like and exited faunt. Bless Gandalf; he brought the most interesting people when he passed through the Shire. "Would you have come this far if I'd told you everything?"

"That should have been our choice!" Thorin roared. He had a point, so Bilbo didn't remind him to use his library voice. "What of the backdoor, the stone, the entire plan you compiled to justify hiring a burglar in the first place? A _hobbit_. One that does not even exist."

Now, _that_ was interesting.

"You have spewed naught but trickery and lies. Why should I trust your words? You clearly have your own plans and agendas that you keep to yourself."

Didn't he always. Bilbo waved away that small issue, "Oh never mind him, he has to find his amusement somewhere. Tell me about this venture of yours!"

"I trust your intentions even less than I do his. We owe you none of our secrets, dragon."

Rude. "Well, how about we establish what isn't a secret and go from there?" Of several reasons he could imagine Thorin Oakenshield leading a quest, only one was remotely likely. "I suppose you're returning to Erebor to slay a dragon and restore your crown?"

Thorin glared at a pair of young dwarves, who piped up indignantly, "We didn't say anything!"

"It is obvious," Bilbo dismissed. "I just can't quite work out how you might do it. You have one idea, Gandalf clearly has something with more horns and fire in mind; it's very confusing, you understand." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You can't possibly hope to kill Smaug with only a dozen soldiers. Most would not commit an _army_ to such a task. Well, that's probably your problem; you have none, and you're certainly not on a quest to barter aid from men or elves. You'd need divine directive to move the dwarf lords – that, I assume, is what you seek. The Arkenstone?"

Silence. Beautiful, astounded silence. Slightly smug, Bilbo pointed out, "I can see I am correct. Fury is written all over you."

The game was up. "That's the gist of it," Balin confirmed.

"He will warn Smaug of our plans," Thorin bristled.

Gandalf signed exasperatedly, "You needn't fear them both. There is only one group that the dragons fight with more than dwarves, and that is with one another. They are so fiercely territorial that, if Bilbo was near, the rest of us would not even register in Smaug's attention."

"Assuming Smaug is still alive," another added. There was a smattering of optimistic agreement.

"There's definitely a live dragon in the mountain," Bilbo dismissed. If they were lucky, it would be a different, less peckish lizard, but he didn't hold high hopes. "Regardless, I cannot help with what you have in mind."

Thorin scoffed. "You wouldn't even fit through the entrance."

Bilbo ignored the interruption. "And I doubt I will be much good at whatever the wizard has is mind, either." The wizard must know this, what was he playing at? Bilbo decided to probe the area with the proverbial stick. "Really, Gandalf? You want to pit me against another dragon, in an enclosed space with no room to manoeuvre?"

"You've _fought_ other dragons?" this time, there was a tinge of hope.

"And won?" Thorin supplied with his own special flavour of doubt.

"Do you think I got these scars from hobbits with pitchforks?" Some were wide enough for the faunts to use as slides. His enthusiasm took a sudden dampening. He sighed. "Even if I thought it was possible, I'd still have to decline. Best case, the round trip will take six months. I can't leave my home for so long."

There was silence, apart from a quiet sigh of that brief hope deflating from one of the youngsters that made Bilbo feel quite guilty and selfish. Which was just ridiculous.

"Look, I'd like to help you –" oh and that just made Bilbo feel worse. How many times had these dwarves heard those same meaningless words? He grit his teeth. He should never have had to deal with this. "There are conditions around my residency that Gandalf is well aware of. So unless he proposes we _fly_ to the mountain and back…"

"Out of the question." Thorin shot it down.

"Then I suppose you should find a hobbit. Take heart. If you succeed in fighting Smaug rather than feeding him, it will go down as one of the most unexpected coups in history."

He rose, stretched, and walked away from the bickering. It was shame that Oakenshield's story would end so badly.

…

"I had plans, Bilbo." There was a note of weariness, a certain droop to Gandalf's inflection that bequeathed tiredness more than anger. That, more than anything, convinced the dragon that he was serious. But he wasn't about to concede to the wizard without a fight.

"I suppose we don't always get what we want." He buried the worm of guilt under bluster, rubbing his shins for good measure. He was going to have bruises. Who'd have thought dwarves packed such a punch. "You know the consequences. For me, for the Shire."

"I do."

Bilbo tilted his head. "But you ask me to leave anyway." Silence. He sighed. "Why are you getting involved with that dusty old drake, Gandalf? Really?"

"The importance of the outcome of this quest cannot be put into words."

The dragon glared. Anger bubbled up and he spat it out. "You're asking me to die, wizard. I sincerely hope I'm worth more effort to you, than _that_."

"I'm asking as a friend, for you to trust me. I believe we can defeat him. I believe we _must_ , before it is too late, or else all will fall to the shadow."

Well that certainly was a depressing outcome. The anger vanished as quickly as it rose. "What are you trying to avoid?"

Gandalf cocked an eyebrow.

"Sending a hobbit in after the Arkenstone might have worked," Bilbo said, optimistically. "I will only save you the necessity of using the Arkenstone and armies. So which is it?"

"It is not so simple. There are many fell things to be avoided, and not all of them start and end at that mountain."

This was bigger than Erebor. Much bigger.

"I… I suppose my rein was coming to an end anyway. It's best to go out with a bang, you know."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows lowered over sad eyes. "I will do my best to protect you, my friend, never doubt that."

"I don't," he confessed, like it was a weakness. "But some things even wizards can't prevent."

The stars were lovely, that night. Bilbo studied them meticulously. Would they look different from the East?

Gandalf smoked until the embers burnt through their fuel. The dwarves probably still hadn't calmed down.

"I fear there is little chance that Thorin will agree to take you along."

Bilbo snorted. "After that introduction? I am sure of it."

"My plans work out in the end."

At that defensive answer, Bilbo was forced to hide a grin in the guise of grooming his wings. "It doesn't necessarily follow that they're always good plans. How you imagined that anyone would be comfortable after such a surprise, I have no idea."

The disappointment dripped away. "Forgive me, my friend," the wizard backed away and sat on the bench with great care. "I feared Thorin would be incurably stubborn if he knew the truth. He will not succeed without you."

"Well, if you're to convince them before we all turn to dust, I suggest you get started. They're not very pleased with you, either."

"Cheeky," Gandalf muttered sourly, and bopped him with his staff with surprising speed. "You helped get us into this, and so you shall brave the stubbornness of dwarves with me."

Bilbo wasn't concerned. The wizard always got his way eventually.

Although, Bilbo had never seen him face someone like Thorin.

…

Gandalf made an affronted noise, a pout made audible. "Bilbo could succeed where legions of dwarves will fail."

"Armies sufficed in the past." Stubborn as a mule, that one.

"At unimaginable cost, and with enchanted arrows that have ceased to be made. Individuals with the skill you require are now as rare as dragons themselves." Gandalf was losing rein on his temper. The dragon found himself leaning forward unconsciously, eager to watch the spectacle from the outside for once.

Balin hummed. "He has a point, Thorin. _If_ a dragon could fight with us, it would go a long way to occupying Smaug's attention and strength."

Perhaps sensing a loss in that direction, Thorin neatly avoided it by changing tracks entirely. "We will worry about the dragon under the mountain when no longer in danger of –"

"Of the dragon under the hill? The dragon that hasn't attacked you yet, though you've spent hours in his home, eating his food and insulting his character. Any reasonable person could see he clearly has no intention of doing so." The wizard wore a look he was only brought to in extreme circumstances. The one that seemed to say; 'I know you're not that stupid, because no one can be that stupid. You must be trying especially hard today. So why don't you try again and rephrase that?'

Yes, _that_ look.

Bilbo was impressed that the dwarves had managed to summon it on such short notice.

"He wouldn't enjoy the attempt," Dwalin promised, muscles tense and defined, as he glared at Bilbo suspiciously.

Bilbo was ready to wash his hands of this business. "Would not or could not; either way are we agreed that no one is getting killed today?"

"Hgrmmm."

"Then move _aside_ , Mister Dwalin, we have a schedule to keep."

"Indeed. We now have to find another burglar when we should be moving on the mountain." Judging by the direction and intensity of his scowl, Thorin blamed Gandalf for this, and he planned to deal with Bilbo by pretending he didn't exist.

Dwalin had no such qualms. His stare never left Bilbo's back as they made their way to the patio once more, his hand didn't leave the handle of his axe.

Gandalf refused to say a word until they were all seated. He ignored the weapons at the table, and how bodies shifted whenever the dragon twitched. He sipped his tea, which must've been stone cold by then, with dignity.

Once the wizard could pretend he was surrounded by more civilised people, he continued as if he'd never left off. "Nonsense. Bilbo will make a fine addition to your company."

"I agreed to allow a Halfling. And we will find one."

"Actually, why didn't you approach Belladonna, Gandalf? She'd be thrilled to travel beyond the mountains," Bilbo piped up. Only the slight tapping on his talons betrayed his ire. Oakenshield glared at him for breaking the happy illusion of his non-existence.

Gandalf sighed. "The task requires, at the very least, spry knees. She is getting on in years, and after Bungo's sickness I doubt she would leave his side."

Bilbo had to grant him that one. "Well I'm hardly as young as I was, either."

The wizard rolled his eyes. "In all my years I will never understand the standards of dragons, Bilbo you are perfectly fit."

The candid reminder caused several dwarves to twitch. Balin interrupted loudly, "Are there not more Halflings in the Shire that may help us?"

"Hobbits do not leave," Bilbo shook his head. "You'd be lucky to find one willing to escort you to Bree, especially if you called them a Halfling."

"I'll not chase a dragon off its hoard just to make room for another." Thorin looked down his nose and his face darkened. In response, Bilbo just rolled his eyes.

"You have my word that I won't keep your mountain or treasure. Gold holds little of my attention, Oakenshield, I assure you."

A scoff. "All dragons are obsessed with treasure."

"Now, Thorin –"

Bilbo waved it away. "No, he's correct, Gandalf. Beings with the power to get whatever they wish tend to be worse than others. But it is a drive most people on this earth share. Do you not have things you treasure?" As he looked around the gathering, he didn't see many faces that looked like they might concede his point. Some looked vaguely sick at the implication that they had something in common. "Heirlooms, knowledge, power, your family, the continued happiness and wellbeing of your people? You're in my home, look around you, and you will see what I treasure."

Oakenshield pulled a face like he was shitting marbles. Thankfully Ori was willing to answer, or they might have been there all night. "Books?"

Close enough. Bilbo offered the young dwarf a nod. He paled immediately, leaving the dragon to wonder what happened to that 'dwavish iron up his jacksie' business. It was a shame; he'd quite liked the imagery.

"We are nothing alike," Thorin spat.

Bilbo's eyes switched targets and they visibly narrowed. He didn't buy it for a second. "There is obviously something at stake here that you are willing to die to collect. Is it your nephews you fight for, to secure their legacy and future, regain a home and culture for your people… or have I misjudged you?"

Was is it merely the gold and prestige they sought, the dragon wondered. Perhaps the dwarves turned towards the mountain for the same reason Smaug the Destroyer once did. Bilbo would have liked to ask, but he stayed his tongue. Gandalf had firmly insisted that he avoid a bloodbath.

Thorin's eyes were cold. The prince broke contact first, standing suddenly with a scrape of his chair.

"This detour has been a waste of time; clearly, we are destined to undertake this feat alone. Allies meddle behind our backs, all the races of Middle Earth cannot be counted upon," he shook his head, braids twisted and silver beads clicked. He didn't sound defeated or angry, or much of anything besides _disappointed_. Like the world had just lived up to his low expectations once more.

"We're leaving. Perhaps the Bagginses will be willing to provide shelter for the night. We will not harm or disrespect your hobbits. That is more curtesy that you deserve."

Bilbo's lips stretched with the serene smile he wore for Sackville-Bagginses, "Please mind the tomato patch on the way out."

Bilbo decided to let the Company gather their belongings in peace.

"Where do you think you're going?" Gandalf demanded.

Bilbo shrugged. The atmosphere wasn't to his liking. "The forest. I take it you'll be gone by morning?"

"I will go with them, yes. They're rather lacking the sense to make this journey, I only hope I can make up the difference."

"What will they do about their burglar?" he wondered.

"Nori is a capable thief."

A dwarf with very dramatic hair looked mighty uncomfortable having that pointed out so blatantly in a dragon's lair. Bilbo grinned at probably-Nori and hummed noncommittally in answer to Gandalf. "Let him know that dragons can tell when thieves palm their belongings. Do that pointed look of yours while you're at it. I quite like those bookmarks."

The dwarves made a suddenly hastened departure. Silence descended on Bilbo and Gandalf, and it was unusually awkward.

"Well, you tried," Bilbo managed, and though he didn't quite mean it, he added, "Wish them luck for me."

Gandalf just looked at him. Yes, with _that_ look. Bilbo held fast. He averted his eyes and bit his lip.

He caved like bad bread.

"Fine! I'll follow them. Stop _looking_ at me like that, you infernal creature."


	2. Setting out

The Shire considered Bilbo one of their own. At first, it wasn’t clear why: he was bigger than the biggest folk, he couldn’t make heads or tails of a garden, he didn’t bake. He collected books and knowledge and stories, and he whispered them into the ears of mischievous faunts under the noses of their disgruntled parents because that was what stories were for. It was uncouth, but the Shire indulged his quirks.

The whys and hows and complicated details were too much fuss for most hobbits to concern themselves with. Only the oldest remembered when the ground had quaked and the old forest had burned, and they did not speak of it lightly. So it was widely known and widely ignored, that the Shire had let a wolf in with the sheep.

Bilbo was a hobbit where it counted, that was all the neighbours cared about. They would miss him when he left.

It did not take long to set his affairs in order. The dwarves had cleaned up after themselves until it looked like they’d never been, so he didn’t have that to dally with. Missives were sent, pardons to invitations were delivered, events were cancelled. Some hobbits grumbled at the inconvenience, but they all knew what it meant and they gossiped with a little fondness. Before noon the Shire echoed with the news that dwarves had been around. It was frightfully exciting.

Bilbo, for his part, did not care. His skin itched. Racing around the Shire all morning had pulled at muscles that had been marinating in cushy comforts for a smidgen too long. Chores complete, Bilbo decided to take his time. The Shire was vast but beautiful, and it was hardly a chore to enjoy the kind weather. Gandalf was with the dwarves; they’d come to no harm in such tame, well-worn lands, and Bilbo had no particular desire to meet them again. He would have to take large detour around the populated land surrounding Bree to avoid a scene, anyway, so he might as well inspect the southern border on the way.

Bilbo moved to a scrap of land clear of smials. There were lingering traces of animals and the hearty scent of earth and grass. A full kaleidoscope of information. Not a scent escaped his attention as air filled his powerful chest and swirled in his bones.

The air sang to him; fly, _hunt_. His heavy head dropped, taking his torso close to the ground. His clawed hands braced him as his thick muscles bunched. The leap hurtled him clear of the tree tops, and great wings shot out to catch him. He heaved down on the air and his body accelerated upward, neck and tail swinging inwards from the force of it. His tail cleaved a tree but it was a footnote in his awareness.

The gust buffeted the ground and his laughing entourage of fauntings. He roared just to see them squeal in excitement.

The wind pulled at him as he beat up, down, up again, rising higher with each flex. The air carried him effortlessly, still vaster and greater than even he. Here, there was no bigger predator, nothing could boast strength greater than what was contained in his powerful body.

He was the master.

And he was famished.

The dragon traversed leagues in minutes, neither quiet nor subtle, but plenty powerful and fast to make up for it. He fell upon the deer that tried to outrun him like a storm.

…

The scent of dwarves and ponies was thick on the path. It brought forth echoes of protectiveness and irritation. A confusing combination, and a slight problem.

The mind of a dragon could notice the smallest details, make obscure connections, retain memories indefinitely, and a thousand other things that allowed them to leap to correct conclusions out of seemingly nowhere. But they are intelligent thinkers, not feelers. Other races could juggle multiple feelings and rationalise on the side, but to a dragon the simultaneous urge to protect and push away was terribly conflicting.

They felt strongly, but with little finesse, and were only equipped to handle one emotion at a time. A dragon’s mind was slow to change; their focus would only be shifted by something bigger and brighter. It’s no surprise, then, that they are a vengeful species, particularly predisposed to vanity and greed. One track mind doesn’t even being to cover it.

In short, the dragon didn’t know what to make of the dwarves, but he knew that he should feel and do _something_. Only the scent of Gandalf allowed him to relax.

The wizard often did good things in bad company; he called it a necessary evil. The confliction was not an unfamiliar thing so Bilbo didn’t necessarily have to deal with the emotions, merely do as he had always done: what Gandalf requested.

It was a favour. He liked favours and he liked the wizard; he always paid for the help with stories. And what great stories they were. Bilbo could hardly wait. He trembled in anticipation, sending the ground around him vibrating, as if the world shared his excitement, he thought with amusement.

First he had to find them, and then he would protect them. The stories would be his before he knew it! How much trouble could a bunch of dwarves get into, anyway?

…

They were easy to track. The dragon only had to land once more to get a bearing on where the wizard was leading them, and from there he flew straight on towards the Misty Mountains.

The distance between them would have been insurmountable by foot, but the dragon’s wings were glorious and carried him past Weathertop by the end of the day. There, the Company’s scent was only days old. They wouldn’t have made it to the Last Bridge, and the area between was small enough to search with ease.

He dove through the low, heavy clouds and they bathed him with their fresh water. The droplets glinted off his scales like gems.

The land was clear and detailed to his eyes; he was a hunter and not inhibited by anything as mundane as distance. He scoured the area, studying every movement beneath the trees. The deer didn’t hold his attention, and at the signs of wargs he bared his teeth. At last, he spotted a train of fourteen rides and knew he’d found his dwarves.

His approach was covered by the rain. The beats of his wings would be indistinguishable to thunder to the inexperienced. But Bilbo knew better than to get too close. The rain would limit the vision of the dwarves, but they would be hard pressed to miss something as large as him. They would not appreciate his form, despite the way the light played on his glistening scales. He sniffed. Distasteful beings.

The dragon landed on the road they had travelled. There wasn’t sickness in their trail, only the sour taste of a bad mood. He was satisfied they remained well, but his honour demanded a closer look.

Sneaking between trees was not an activity that made use of this natural skillset. Twigs made obnoxiously load snaps, and he tended to break them by the bush load. He feared all the banging had given him away, until their voices reached his ears.

“… and my arrow flew true, impaling that boar through the eye.” The voice was enthralling. Bilbo regretted taking his time over the traitorous undergrowth. A few felled trees would have been worth the beginning of that tale.

“You call that a first kill?” A heckler called.

“Oh ho, Bofur, you think you can beat that?”

“Aye, and I did it with a beard, not like some clean-shaven elf,” Bofur, and several others, laughed heartily.

“I was _thirty_!” the protesting dwarf was drowned out by the rowdiness of the others.

“Thirty, my foot! You still had someone wiping your royal arse at that age.”

“Go on, then, brother,” one urged.

Bilbo soon forgot about the sticks completely.

…

The storm persisted for days, but eventually it was reduced to drizzle and then the sun even came out long enough to warm his scales.

After that, patrolling around their camp became even more pleasant. He used the time to check in on their health, but didn’t try to pretend the regularity of his visits was for their benefit.

They told stories each night without fail. Most were simple little things, but when the wizard would retire early, they’d sink into their native tongue, which, the dragon noted with a pout, stubbornly remained one of the best kept secrets in Middle Earth.

Some nights the atmosphere would fall stiff and solemn, their faces would close as attention turned inward. On others, they would be crying with laughter, throwing barbs at each other before breaking into harsh, rumbling songs that still managed to sound bright.

Tantalising. _Infuriating_.

It all hinted at the best stories, the ones that were really worth listening to. But it all sounded like gargling marbles to Bilbo. It made the dragon want to scream, but that would draw things to an end.

He listened despite the language barrier, at first because he didn’t have much choice. Then he learnt to distinguish their tones and that was better than nothing, and in time he came to see it as music; he was left to compose his own meaning but it touched him all the same. He hung on their words and risked discovery to see their expressions.

He found he’d become quite addicted to letting those voices and their nonsense words wash over him. He was snared by thrilling and beautiful tales he couldn’t understand.

Judging by the nostalgia of their audience, Bilbo worked out that Balin and Ori liked to talk about history, Bifur liked nice stories, Dwalin liked his with lots of blood, and they were all sick of Glóin’s stories. Nori was cunning and his smirks and tales reflected the best of that, the young princes liked funny tales and Bofur was the best source of those.

Bilbo watch Oakenshield most of all, though he often sat apart from the revelry and hardly ever shared words.

The dwarf was disappointing. Bilbo had been promised a leader, not a sulky king. How was this the same dwarf he’d heard so much about? Perhaps he’d changed, or the stories had been exaggerated.

Gandalf always said that was the problem with living with his head in books; he tended to forget that the real world was out there. He made it sound as if Bilbo was missing something, but the dragon disagreed. Reality never lived up to legend.

Bilbo was well aware that meeting heroes in reality rarely went the way one expected. Legends grew with a life of their own, flourishing under attention. Stories controlled history and determined who and how people were immortalised, and it was almost always larger than life.

Still, sometimes he wished that wasn’t the case.

…

The snap of a twig interrupted the dragon’s nap. He didn’t open his eyes. The sun was quite lovely and he wasn’t in the mood to move.

It was just the young princes, anyhow. They weren’t stupid enough to bother him.

Their scent was strong and mixed with freshly killed fowl. Idly, the dragon wondered how far the dwarves had been forced to travel to find prey, given his presence.

Their scent was growing ever closer. He huffed in amusement, and the motion stopped. They were sneaking up on him.

Leaves crinkled.

Sneaking up on him _badly_.

There was the sound of an aborted gasp, and flesh hitting flesh – perhaps a mouth or a shoulder? It didn’t matter. The footsteps hastily retreated.

He supposed he’d have to move now, before the rest came roaring in idiotically. Bilbo allowed himself a few more minutes to bask.

That night, the topic of discussion was the Dragon Problem.

“He’s probably just curious,” Gandalf deflected. “He roams the entirety of the west lowlands, it isn’t unheard of for him to travel this way.”

“He was just lying in the open! How has no one noticed the enormous dragon around here before?”

“They have. His influence is everywhere, Fili. I’m sure word has reached Ered Luin of the fabled safety of the Shire and surrounding lands, free from orcs and fell beasts. There are dragon sightings often, and maybe those rumours would gather strength if any people or livestock ever went missing.”

“Thieves don’t do business in the Shire,” Nori said with an air of realisation, to his elder brother’s chagrin. “They find themselves in the Old Forest, hallucinating great beasts. If they make it that far.”

His own stories. Bilbo preened.

Their veiled panic provided the night’s entertainment. By the time the first watch got settled in (much more wired up than the previous evening’s, he noted), and the speculation quietened down, Bilbo was preparing to leave.

A screech split the night.

Ori startled. Dwalin woke roaring, axes swinging, which immediately got everyone else out of their bedding.

“Orcs,” Kíli noted. Amusingly, the dwarves relaxed.  

Thorin eyed Gandalf. “It seems your glorious protector’s reputation is exaggerated.”

Bilbo glared, but not at the uppity would-be king, this time.

The traces of orcs he’d found had been weeks old. He’d followed their erratic, nonsensical trails to the edge of the North Downs and assumed the foul creatures were long gone. He should have pursued the issue.

They were close, brazenly risking his territory. Unusual behaviour, only explained if they were tracking the dwarves. That did not sit well with the dragon. It curled in his gut and showed itself in the growl that was pulled from his belly. The dragon yearned to roar his displeasure, but he swallowed it down until it fed the fires within. He launched off the cliff into the valley below, his claws scoured rifts into the earth as he went.

They were not far, no, never far enough to escape _him_.

The orcs screamed again as they burned.

He spent the night flying, and by morning he was convinced the area was once again as it should be. Their foul taint had been burn from the land.

After one last detour to collect a charred corpse, Bilbo dropped the body along the path the Company would take in a few hours. Gandalf would understand the warning. The dwarves would probably take it personally, but there was just no helping some people.

Then, he set off to find a stream to wash the taste of unwashed servant of evil from his mouth.

He slept intermittently that day, preferring to rest for a few hours before catching up with the dwarves to ensure they hadn’t stumbled on more enemies during his nap.

It was just as well.

The dwarves hadn’t slept well after the lightshow with the orcs, and so it was thirteen cranky dwarves and a too-cheerful wizard on sixteen twitchy ponies that day. Inevitably, some would say, the grumpiest dwarf drove off their wizard with the strength of his obstinacy, and removed the buffer around the dragon’s emotional conflict.

If Gandalf had abandoned them, did his favour still hold? Wracked with uncertainty, Bilbo stalled, and just about fell out of his viewpoint in the sky. Flap, old boy, or at least glide. He settled on the earth some distance from the Company in a nice clearing barred by trees.

The matter was much more complicated than the annoyance/protectiveness he’d started off with. They’d lured orcs into his lands, they’d drawn him from the comfort of his home, and they’d alienated his friend.

He should remove them, chase them away like they’d harried off the wizard. And yet… he had learnt their names. He’d heard about their families and their dreams and the battles they’d fought.

They did tell wonderful stories, the dragon conceded.

In the end he was so tired of dwarves and wizards and a general lack of sleep, that exhaustion prevailed. He curled up where he stood.

…

The wind shifted in the night, blowing down from the hills instead of up their slopes. It carried the stench of carrion and rot to his nose, making him wonder if this nice clearing had been such a good place to lay his head in after all. The scent was strong enough that he suspected a mouse may have crawled up is nostril and fermented there. He sneezed.

Irritably, he took to the skies, and the smell lessened somewhat. But that direction took him too far from the dwarves, and he’d not yet decided whether he was done with them.

He reeled about and scanned the land. He noted details he hadn’t bothered paying attention to, earlier; a broken farm house, debris strewn about in a way that only really big things can manage. Odd. He hadn’t travelled this far out in a while.

A few more beats of his wings took him over the dwarven campfire. It was spluttering rather pathetically without their attention. Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. There was a glow from a second fire in the trees.

The stench strengthened the closer he flew, and he circled high above, both morbidly curious and reluctant to investigate. Perhaps the dwarves were the source of the terrible smell? If so, they could _forget_ about a dragon guard. Then something big moved beneath the thick canopy, and his attention was snared. That decided it. He dove (upwind, definitely), landed, and stalked closer.

The glow grew brighter, and the smell dropped off somewhat, the main source was further to the east. He would have left it at that, but the memory of that big thing pushed him onwards, and once he peered down over a rock, into the clearing below, it wiped all thought from his mind.

Trolls. He’d never seen a troll in his life. He hadn’t wanted to, either. They belonged in stories, where their odour could be described, not experienced. They had their backs to him and crowded around a boiling pot.

Tousled up in sacks, ready to be eaten, either in a pile or tied around a spit and slowly rotating high above a fire, were his dwarves.

_His_ dwarves!

Their weapons were in a pile, they’d obviously not gone down without a fight. He didn’t smell blood, but that didn’t mean they were uninjured, because he couldn’t smell much of anything beyond troll.

It was too… A dragon beyond words was, historically, not a good sign. A red haze descended on his vision, seeming to sharpen around the three bumbling figures that towered over the Company (oh but they would still _tremble_ under him).

Just hours ago, he’d been undecided whether they were his responsibility. There was no doubt in his mind now. The idea that they could be injured under _his_ watch… He was beyond the point of raging with abandon. Dragon fury was a dangerous thing: cold, calculating, and in the end, triumphant.

The dragon left the tree line on his belly, neck and wings close to the ground, and he flowed over a high rock and into the ring of visibility offered by the fire.

The ponies noticed him first, and they were stunned stupid. He wondered if their hearts would give out. He stepped over them. Though Bilbo’s chin scrapped the dirt, his eyes remained on level with the trolls.

He could tell when the dwarves spotted him. Balin turned as white as his hair, and that complexion spread through the ranks like a disease. Being tied up, without weapons, he noted in some unfocused part of his mind, was probably not how they’d prefer to encounter a dragon in a very bad mood.

“Oi! What’s up with you lot!” The largest troll turned to the dwarves and poked the nearest with the end of his spoon, suspicious that the loud objections had suddenly dropped off.

Bilbo growled low, a warning sound that was felt more than heard.

“You say something, Bert?”

Trolls, he decided, were thick.

He would have loved nothing more than to pounce and dig his teeth into its throat, but there would be a certain degree of rolling and flailing involved, and he was trying to _prevent_ the dwarves being pureed. The only thing left was to herd them away from his dwarves, into open ground, and then extract vengeance.

“What,” he purred in a voice as deep and guttural as sin, “do you think you are doing?”

His back legs and tail were still perched on the rock, and he spread his wings for balance, noting absently that they happened to block the faint moonlight. The fire lit the underside up gloriously. He seemed to have sucked all that air from the clearing.

He risked another step, managing to find a spot free of bodies without tiptoeing and thus slaughtering his dignity. He was forced to twist his head between the spit and the pot to avoid collecting tree trunks with his long horns. It put him in a bad position to glare at all three trolls simultaneously.

“Trolls,” he continued in a tone that marvelled at their audacity. “In _my_ territory.”

Bilbo had never coaxed such a high squeak from such a large creature before. The toughest one bunched his fists but they hung helplessly. The dragon grinned, showing his teeth at the best angle.

“These are my dwarves you’re cooking. How… discourteous.”

The squeaking one cowered, taking hurried steps backwards. It knocked over the boiling pot. The liquid hit the fire with an angry hiss and sent up a cloud of steam. The clearing was plunged into darkness, throwing his glowing green patterning into sharp relief, even through the smoke. He couldn’t have arranged better dramatic effect if he’d tried. It must’ve been a sight to behold.

“You can have ‘em!”

“You mean to give me something that is already mine, that you have attempted to _steal_ from me?” he growled.

They panicked. “We never wanted ‘em! They strung ‘emselves up and begged to be eaten, they did!”

He made sure to eye the trolls hungrily. It was surprisingly difficult with that permeating stink. He took another step forward, the corner of a claw caught the fire, stirring ashes into the air.

“Shall I share how I cook troll?” Bilbo continued, and it was almost pleasant. Conversational. They were wrong-footed. “It’s best to skin them first, I find. Alive, of course. It gets the juices flowing.”

Another step. They were backed against the tree line, now.

“Then they must be gutted, in case they have worms in their tubes. That removes the worst of the smell. Their arms break like twigs, their skin flakes like leaves. And that does not even begin to describe how I treat murderers, _thieves_.”

“We won’t come back,” they cowered as he leant over them.

“No,” the dragon promised with finality, “You won’t.”

He heaved with his legs and sailed clean over the fire, landing in the spot the trolls saw fit to vacate. The dragon sent a roar to hurry their steps. The crashing and howling was audible for some time.

Tension was thick in the air. The dwarves doubtlessly thought they were next, but instead of turning on them, the dragon stuffed his muzzle in the leaf litter and scratched at his poor, abused nose with a whine, “Disgusting. Vile.”

Bilbo heard the little creatures in the background, scrambling to break out of the tough bags by force of will and vigour. Because that had worked so well against the trolls.

How does one even get caught by trolls? Honestly, the wizard leaves for a few hours and they manage to get bagged by even greater idiots.

Bilbo eyed the tight bags and knots with dismay. “Well, this is a fine mess. I don’t suppose you could wait for Gandalf.” The dwarves on the spit put up a fuss. The dragon sighed. “Guess not. Wizards, never late, my foot.”

The dragon’s teeth were round and about the size of their hands. Not very useful. His claws were just as bad. His fire? Worse, much worse.

The dwarves were going to hurt themselves at this rate. No, really, they were panicking enough that someone was bound to sprain something.

He turned to inspect the pile of weapons. He tried to nudge the swords towards the Company, over a cacophony of protests and name calling. “I’m not stealing them. Could you at least try to grab them through the bags?”

Apparently their hands were tied as well. Must he do everything himself? He spotted a large spear, like a toothpick to his eyes, but something he could handle.

He turned to pile of dwarves and the cursing was revived with vigour. There was also a great deal of threatening and bearing of teeth.

“Oh relax,” he snapped contrarily, rising the spear awkwardly and cutting the bag around Bombur’s legs before the rotund dwarf could wiggle away, “Make yourself useful and get the spit off the fire before the meat burns.”

Dwalin cursed at him.

Bilbo coughed. “Ah, too soon? I apologise.” He’d never been the best judge with comic timing. There was a nonzero possibility the dwarves had not taken the comment as intended.

He sliced two more bags. It would give them enough purchase to free themselves eventually. Perhaps long enough for tempers to cool, some of them looked like they’d come up swinging. Thorin, for example, exhibited death in a look.

Bilbo considered leaving him for the others to free, but in the end, he didn’t grace the leader with any special treatment, and he put the king’s lower half through as much risk as the others.

“I suggest you wait here til morning, they won’t come back this way.”

He took to the sky.

Sunrise stole his satisfaction.

Of _course_ it did.

The trolls were frozen in stupid poses, caught trying to make a break for the mountains.

He ploughed into them head first, snapped their arms off and stomped them into the ground until they were reduced to dust.

“It is unlike you to be so affected, Bilbo,” the wizard interrupted his tantrum, leaning on his staff and looking for all the world completely unaffected, save for his raised eyebrows.

The dragon hissed. “They tried to eat _my_ dwarves, my–” hold a moment. Since when did he proclaim a connection to them directly? Bother. He glared at the wizard. “This is _your_ fault.”

“Take a break, my friend,” Gandalf ignored his sullen mood cheerfully. “We’ll be in Rivendell on the morrow, if I have anything to say about it.”

A proper rest, a _library_. Bilbo liked the sound of that.


	3. Rivendell

“Elrond, my friend! It has been too long,” Bilbo greeted at bridge.

“Too long entirely, Bilbo,” the elf lord agreed with a smile. The dragon noticed a second figure, despite his attempt to blend into the architecture. “And Lindir, just the elf I wanted to see.”

Bilbo’s smile was mostly teeth. It was nice to know that this stay had to potential to be comfortable _and_ fun. “I’m sorry you missed my last visit.” The elf had been forewarned. Bilbo had sworn to drop in without notice from that point on. He was glad he’d finally gotten around to it. “Gandalf is bringing a party of thirteen though, by the way. Thirteen dwarves, that is.”

Lindir would never do anything as undignified as flinch. But that was the closest Bilbo had seen. He endeavoured to do better.

The elf collected himself in moments and retreated to expressionless sarcasm. “You always bring the nicest things.”

The dragon blinked innocently, as if there was anyone present who would believe it. The group started towards the rooms. “Well, they’re no friends of mine. Actually, they may try to kill me. I’ll try not to get entrails on the curtains this time.”

Lindir almost frowned, Bilbo was certain. The steward couldn’t make his excuses and disappear around a corner fast enough.

“You shouldn’t tease him,” Elrond chastened.

Bilbo shrugged. “Probably. You’re not going to grant him leave for Lothlórien again, are you?”

Frowning seriously, but with his voice oddly light, Elrond said, “I’m sure he wouldn’t want to be rude. We are expecting guests, after all.”

The dragon laughed.

…

By the time he made it to the library and poked his nose as far in as he could manage, a whole pile of books had been set aside by the entrance. Someone loved him. (Or Elrond had foresight and loved his home. Whatever.) He required just one more thing: opposable thumbs and a body that could fit through doorways. Library assistants were wonderful people.

By the time Bilbo surfaced from the raunchy diary of a Grey Elf that had sailed centuries past, the sun had risen high. A plate of pastries and meat had been left on the desk. Dry. It had been there at least four hours. He munched on the food, easily ignoring the unpleasant texture, his mind swirling with new knowledge.

“Master Shingleback–”

“Mandos take you!” Bilbo shrieked, jumping about a foot. He hunched over the pile of books protectively, and his glare didn’t let up even once he realised he’d terrified and scandalised the poor library assistant.

Elrond’s herald, despite narrowly missing an encounter with his tail, was not flustered. “My Lord wishes to inform you that the dwarves have arrived.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo bit out grudgingly, the fear of Belladonna’s ladle following him still.

Rivendell was a lot livelier with the Company about. Not that the elves were dull. They just took their time, considered things carefully, and everything wound up a bit slow and stiff.  

“Shingleback,” they’d greet him formally, when he dunked his head into the bathhouse covered with days of grime and troll dust.

“Nice weather we’re having,” they’d say over breakfast, where he stuffed his face with anything edible.

“A fine choice,” Erestor painstakingly noted and complimented each book Bilbo selected.

“It would not be wise,” Elrond would say whenever he sensed that Bilbo had thought of something really scandalous to share.

They were so polite it was exhausting.

But the dwarves didn’t even have to make an effort to ruffle the citizens. They were so lively and unselfconscious, they turned elvish sensibility on its head just by existing. It was like throwing a full box of the wizard’s crackers and poppers on a fire.

Bilbo loved watching the chaos. There was something about elven composure that just provoked him. The dragon had been tempted to stomp around the place and drink from the fountain, again; unfortunately, it now had dwarves bathing in it, and his host’s tolerance would probably not extend to encompass a territory dispute over a water feature.

Bilbo decided lunch would be the best time to let the Company know he was around. It was the main meal of the day with plenty of elves in attendance, and the food was usually light and green, so he figured the dwarves couldn’t possibly get much more horrified. 

But any hypothesis was worth testing.

“Good afternoon Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Oakenshield and Company,” he said, after hair had been cleared from eyes and leafy vegetables had settle somewhere in the distance due to his windy landing on the edge of the balcony.

Dori pulled Ori and Nori behind him, dragging the middle brother right out his seat and over the table with a squawk. Thorin stepped down from the high table, a sword, which had been resting in Elrond’s grip, now held warily before him. Bifur ate a decorative flower.

“Good afternoon, Bilbo,” Elrond took the change of atmosphere calmly, as always. “I suspected you might join us.”

Sometimes, Bilbo thought Elrond might know him too well.

Lindir fetched another table setting with his own brand of blank mutiny, staring at Bilbo, the table and back. The message was clear: no blood on the upholstery. But when put that way, it was practically a _dare_.

The blasted elf set him a place at the head table. He shouldn’t have. That was… that was… petty and cruel and just a little ingenious. Bilbo could respect that, even as he sullenly plonked his head down beside the dwarf king.

He noticed the old elvish design on the blade and leaned back, not at all subtly. Suddenly, he felt much less comfortable with his taunting presence. Normal steel would blunt on dragon scale before it cracked through, but that was not normal metal. Infusing blades with ancient magic was cheating, as far as he was concerned. And the grip was made from a dragon’s tooth. Bilbo bet the dwarf just loved the symbolism.

There was a second, a straight blade at Gandalf’s side. He felt a ridiculous phantom pang that was somewhat like betrayal.

_Slayers, champions, trophy hunters_ , his mind whispered warily. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable, it made him angry. He was used to being threatened, not actually _feeling_ threatened. Important distinction.

Annnnnnd that was _enough_ indulgence. Bilbo capped the lid over the urge to rampage. Gandalf was safe, the wizard was a friend. He stared at the crisp edge of Thorin’s blade. Bilbo’s delicate eye was far too close to it. The wizard was a protector. He’d earned that much.

The worst part was, he’d committed to this. He couldn’t back down or Lindir would take the victory. That elf deserved more than spiders between his bedsheets this time. (Come to think of it, the overly large spiders might have been what prompted this arrangement).

At least the dwarf wasn’t smug about it. Thorin looked as uncomfortable under the scrutiny as he had been at dinner with the trolls.

Bilbo stayed silent, all his hobbit etiquette abandoned him. He flicked out his tongue to snag some bread that went down like sawdust. Everything looked indigestible. Most of it was. Green food wasn’t his thing.

Bilbo couldn’t take the silence. “I trust the remainder of your travels were comfortable?”

The dwarf stiffened, replying with the affirmative.

They were in motion now, stepping around each other in that deadly back-and-forth pattern of duels. Both armed, primed, dangerous.

“I am glad to hear it,” Bilbo swallowed. The cheese was dry in his mouth. “You were being hunted by orcs.”

Thorin acknowledged the words with a nod, “We got your… message.”

“There was a large pack trailing you. It appears that several times, scouts left to carry information further south.”

“Indeed? Such an organised force has not been drawn out in many years,” Gandalf spoke, brows furrowed.

“These are strange times,” Elrond dismissed.

Gandalf remained unduly concerned. “And yet throughout, these have remained some of the safest lands. Now trolls come down from the mountains, orcs gather in number. Whatever next?”

“You attract an absurd amount of trouble,” Bilbo told Thorin. He managed to stamp the admiration out his tone.

What followed was the tensest small talk Bilbo had ever endured, and he’d been forced to make nice with the rotten side of the Baggins family tree.

Bilbo survived by planning gruesome revenge on Lindir, and for once he thought he and the dwarf king may have been of the same mind. He suspected Thorin had a more extensive list and Bilbo yearned to pick his brains for that creativity.

But sooner than Bilbo expected, it was over, miraculously gore free.

Oakenshield stood quickly and made to leave, but paused as he passed close to Bilbo. Close enough to touch. Bilbo tensed and felt more rabbit than dragon. There was something about this dwarf, with his grave mannerisms and proud line to his shoulders, that made him feel small.

The king spoke the words carefully, as if they might choke him. “We owe you our thanks, dragon.”

Elrond smiled, but it was Lindir’s quirk of an eyebrow that really got Bilbo. An actual facial expression. The elf was _thrown_.

Bilbo felt a surge of fondness, in that moment. But then he processed their words, and almost fell off his perch on the balcony. “I –um, well… you’re welcome?”

Thorin nodded gravely, and ducked under Bilbo’s horn. He braced a hand on the scaly hide for balance, and didn’t even cringe.

The poor dragon was left with very muddled thoughts and the potential for a heart attack.

…

Bilbo had so many things flying about his head he couldn’t keep straight. He couldn’t make sense of the cocktail of floaty, wary and curious elements that made up his confusion. The annoying things impeded his logical mind, they made him doubt and hesitate. The state of focus his kind were renown for seemed beyond him. Although, perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. A mind firmly stuck in panic mode, equipped with wings and fire, might not be well-received by the hosts.

He wandered Rivendell in a daze of indecision. How should he respond, what would happen next, Eru’s balls, what to do!

The house was poised to make the most of the clear, pleasant air. The open halls caught the breeze and it pulled at his wings. A perfect evening for flying. The wind would be comforting rather than over-eager, the view of sunset bathing the land in an orange glow would be spectacular. There was just enough time to enjoy the heat, before long shadows from the cliffs would fill the valley. The light never felt weak in Rivendell; no matter the time of year or day, it was warm and strong. He went further down the valley to bask, until he could feel it in his bones. He would carry the warmth with him for hours into the night. Away from the household, he could relax. He didn’t dislike folk – usually people were interesting, in small doses – but in excess, they were vexing like nothing else.

Being alone made him feel at home. It reminded him of the wide halls of his library, his nest by the fire pit, the isolated stretches of the Old Forest, the banks of the Brandywine, the miles of emptiness in the Lone-lands. All home. All quiet and open and undeniably his.

Other creatures craved companionship. Bilbo could imagine the urge, but he doubted he would ever understand it. Group thinkers may count men and sheep among them, not dragons. Even the unimposing presence of the elves grated on him after a while. Taking time for himself was paramount to his sanity in the long run, and the most vital part of that was flying.

He flew high, past the layer of clouds, until the moon and stars shone down on him unobscured, and higher still. The air was thin and did not want to hold him, ice frosted his wings and steam rose from his chest. It was so cold, it made it easy to feel the warmth inside.

Then he dove straight down, wings and limbs tucked in tight. He barrelled through the clouds and the landscape splayed under him. From that height, the only discernible characteristics were vague. Rolling green lands to the east and the west met in the middle at the crinkled mountain range scar. Larger, closer, faster. He flared his wings slightly, angled his head and tail to change direction with a move that made his lungs seem to drop into his legs, and then he was skimming along the range at dazzling speeds.

His second eyelids worked overtime. He sang his excitement, felt the roar resonate and amplify in his hollow horns, and heard only a slight echo after it was snatched away from him.

The ground was coming up fast and the dragon was still moving quickly enough to seriously risk spraining a wing. It was an injury that would spell a messy death. The danger had a strange calming effect, almost like it blew the little niggling stresses out of proportion and left his mind free of all but the immediate manoeuvres.

He forced his wings out until the wind threatened to rip them out of their sockets. He slowed, the strain lessened, and he spread them further. Inch by inch, the deadly plummet became a leisurely glide, and it remained that way for the rest of the night; the fear of falling mitigated, the prior stress forgotten.

By the time the sky began to lighten, he was drained. The lack of sleep was addling his mind and his muscles ached from the exercise. He considered returning to his comfortable spot in the great court and remaining there until at least noon, but reconsidered.

He landed in the gardens with a heavy thud and carefully climbed onto a roof. He then curled around a tower until the tip of his tail rested under his nose.

The weight of his snores would shake the walls of Lindir’s room. He snickered deeply, tail twitching, and fell asleep with a very toothy grin.

…

By happy coincidence, he’d placed himself between wherever the dwarves spent the night and the dining hall. Being woken by shouting was annoying, but the expletives were inspirational. Now, Oín was no surprise – healers got the best source of swearing in their line of work, but Bilbo hadn’t known Ori had it in him.

He blinked and Ori jumped. Bilbo raised his head and laid it on his feet, to watch the trio better. His horn caught a tile; it loosened, slid down noisily and smashed into pieces on the ground.

It was quiet, for a moment, uncertain. The dragon shrugged his massive shoulders. “Oops.”

The young dwarf let out an uncertain laugh. Bilbo smirked and Ori paled slightly. Beside him, Bifur was unfazed and he dragged the other dwarf on through. Óin followed them in a determinedly unbothered manner, but spoiled the act by checking over his shoulder every other second.

He feigned sleep until he’d heard thirteen sets of curses, just to get the full set, and took some time to commit words to memory, before allowing himself to follow through with the ruse and dose off properly again.

“Bilbo.” The dragon was disturbed once more. Lord Elrond stood by the smashed tile. He suggested mildly, “Don’t you think the courtyard would be more appropriate?”

Bilbo heaved the largest sigh he could muster. The building trembled, but he didn’t doubt the integrity. He had tested them under worse conditions. He picked up faint cursing from inside.

Elrond didn’t betray much in his expression, but the relaxed lines suggested he wasn’t irritated, and of the two probable responses, that left amusement.

“I’m sure poor Lindir would appreciate the quiet,” the elf added.

Truly, it would be difficult to make enough of a rumble to disturb the steward from the courtyard. “A challenge. I accept.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow. Bilbo considered that enthusiastic endorsement.

The grass was undeniably more comfortable than the peaks and titles of the rooftops, and it was reaching that point of day when Bilbo appreciated the shade from the surrounding trees and buildings. The elves rarely passed by, and it should have been quiet but for Bilbo’s determined purring, so the dragon was surprised to hear an angry roar and pounding footsteps approaching.

Bifur burst into the courtyard and Bilbo immediately noticed the change from the normally quiet creature, a hundred subtle points in way he held himself that combined to give something wilder. He bounced off a pillar and came back swinging, eyes unfocused. Or perhaps focused on something else.

Worried voices followed. Bilbo could tell from the echo that they’d taken a wrong turn and ended up by the main fountain. If Bifur needed help or intervention, he wasn’t going to get it soon.

Bilbo wavered indecisively, not entirely sure what he was seeing. He’d heard that the minds of warriors sometimes placed them on old battlegrounds. It sounded dangerous, not for him, but for the untrained elven servants.

“Bifur,” he called hesitantly. No response. A little louder. “Bifur.”

The raging dwarf turned, his face a fearsome snarl.

Bilbo tried to look less provocative, relying on instincts he hadn’t used in decades. He was a little rusty. He left his head and neck on the ground in an attempt to appear more meek than menacing, tried to think small thoughts. He resisted the urge to squash the charging attacker; that would not be productive for his goals.

Bifur’s fists struck his forearm and the dragon’s eyes widened slightly. There was metal embedded in his gauntlets. It was a solid blow, not painful, but he’d felt it, which was impressive. He amended his previous assertion: an unarmed dwarf mightn’t inflict _lasting_ damage.

A distraction he may be, but Bilbo was not some training post to beat on. Bilbo lifted a foot to hold the pest down. It was uncommonly frustrating, like trying to pin an eel, but he managed to knock the dwarf over and hold him under a palm. He was tiny, really, his limbs didn’t even poke out. Unfortunately, the restraint made the dwarf’s panic far worse. After a moment thinking through his priorities, Bilbo let him up again with a sigh.

“You’re stronger than you look.”

The noise seemed to help. Bifur stumbled, shook his head, before darting sideways and catching the dragon’s ribs with metal capped boots.

Bilbo snarled. _Just like a fauntling throwing a tantrum,_ he reminded himself sternly, _don’t kill it_. “How rude. I’ll tell Bombur. He’ll eat all your flowers.”

Actually, there was an idea. If anyone knew how to deal with this, it would be them. He raised his voice. “Bofur, Bombur, the garden courtyard. _Now_.”

Bifur matched his volume, roaring a battle cry and reaping vengeance on his ribs and shins.

The dragon vented his irritation through narrowed eyes and a rhythmic flick of his tail. The dwarf was ill or mad, and a guest of Elrond besides. Very bad manners to eat a guest. He crooned gently. Perhaps his real feelings came through, because Bifur took that as a threatening noise, too close to a growl. The flailing increased.

That was a problem. Dragons were capable of deep and rumbly and not much else. In fact, he knew of just one alternative, but he hadn’t had cause to use before since he’d never bothered to sire offspring.

Bilbo chirped. The first attempt was more like a hiccup than useful noise, but he soon sorted it out. Better yet, it appeared to _work_. That or Bifur was just getting tired.

He continued chirping anyway. Covering the dwarf with his wing, enclosing him in darkness without actually touching also calmed him. The blows petered off, the unintelligible swearing faded to unintelligible mutters. It was somewhat like Bilbo imagined a baby dragon might act. He was practically _qualified_ for this… whatever this was.

After all the raving, the silence made the dragon nervous. Bilbo shuffled his head and peaked under the edge of his wing. Still glaring. He slammed the edge back down and chirped quickly for good measure.

“Bifur!”

Oh dear. Well, this was a slightly compromising position.

Well, better late than never. Now perhaps they could get rid of their cousin and Bilbo could endeavour to forget the entire afternoon.

Bofur and Bombur’s apprehension paled in comparison to how terrified they appeared after he lifted his wing and revealed his small adversary. But that didn’t stop them from racing to Bifur’s side with unexpected speed.

Bombur clasped his cousin’s shoulders, murmuring to him in their rocky language. Bilbo detected relief and slight hint of softness that he hadn’t heard from dwarves before. Bofur showed the same relief when he reached their calmed cousin, but the moment he remembered their predicament he turned to Bilbo and took a step back. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s a lovely dwarf! It’s being so close the Misty Mountains, it wakes the bad memories.”

“Don’t eat him!” Bombur implored, looking horrified.

Comforting first and begging later. Prey these days – their priorities were all backwards.

Bilbo sniffed gruffly, not quite able to meet their eyes. “I’ve quite forgotten already.” He climbed to his feet, and gracefully fled the baffling, uncomfortable scene.

Ugh. People. Sticking around for the entertainment was hardly worth the effort, the disruptions, the _indignity_. He needed to kill something big and remind the food chain that he did not take rubbish from little crunchy things.

…

Boredom was the only thing that stopped Bilbo avoiding Rivendell until the dwarves left. His return was heralded with more flower encounters than usual.

There was a yellow lily on his book pile. A poppy was delivered with a plate of food. When he fled to the great court after embarrassing himself with his unshakable hero worship of Glorfindel, a pink peony waited for him.

Bilbo figured there was a pattern and once he was aware of it, the source was obvious.

That afternoon, he decided to eat dinner with like a civilised being, and to no one’s surprise there was a dandelion in the space left for him. But there also wasn’t a single threat from the dwarves, and that was clear evidence that the fabric of the world was unravelling. Bilbo had to double check if Thorin and Dwalin were present – they were, but there were only distracted glares from their corner.

Bifur approached him, eventually, when the dragon sat by one of the many streams, taking some time to himself.

Bilbo read slight shame in the set of his shoulders and gratefulness on his face. Body language was easy to discern, especially since the dwarf made no effort to hide it. In fact, he seemed to exaggerate it, expressing himself with his body since he couldn’t with a language anyone understood. He spoke with his hands, and Bilbo didn’t know that language either but the smooth movements still conveyed a tone, and he could guess the rest.

“You’re welcome,” Bilbo replied.

Bifur’s rough face split into a rough smile. He pulled a wooden figure from a pocket and Bilbo upturned a hand to accept it.

“Oh, it’s exquisite.” And it really was. A bird, each feather was detailed in warm brown, it looked alive. “You made this?”

Bilbo read honest pleasure and sure acceptance from an experienced crafter. The dwarf finished by urging something. He smelled pleased. “You’re right to be proud, this is remarkable, I’ve never seen equal.” He checked the signs, and then confirmed aloud to be sure, “Is it a gift?”

Yes. “Is this because I didn’t eat you?” Wry grin, quick signs. Almost, not quite. “Because I helped you?” Spot on. “Ah so I did help. That’s good, I wasn’t certain,” he smiled down at the bird. How thoughtful. It went a long way to soothing his bruised dignity. “Thank you.”

Bifur sat himself down without invitation, but Bilbo couldn’t hold onto his annoyance for long. The dwarf was a good, solid presence and Bilbo wasn’t overwhelmed with the urge to make him leave. He was grounding rather than disturbing, calming instead of imposing.

The water bubbled quietly. The sun threw interesting patterns of light on the water. Fish made a mission of avoiding the bright spots. For whatever reason, it reminded Bilbo of the Stoor-Harfoot debate of yesteryear, though that had been several radishes, two goats and the Gamgee homebrew short of a peaceful scene. Bifur munched on a bouquet, and somehow made that seem normal. He seemed to have gone for a few types of flowers, maybe favourites. It disappeared quickly, but Bifur left one, a blue thistle, and offered it to the dragon.

Bilbo rolled his eyes, but grinned and took it. “This is bad for my reputation, you know. The elves will think they can convert me to the soft side. I’ll have to take drastic measures and leave animal innards on their doorstep and there’s only so many times they’ll put up with that before they send me on my way.”

A query in his hands, interest in his eyes. “It’s around four. And it was only that high because they couldn’t prove my guilt for the first three. I framed the cats.”

He had a deep, booming laugh. There was a flourish of hand movements, gestures, gruff but pointed noises and a quick raising of eyebrows. The flower was pushed insistently at the dragon.

Bilbo snorted. “Oh, well then, if it matches my eyes, I suppose that’s alright.” Oh, the dwarf was _good_. Straight to the vanity. He’d certainly picked up on how to persuade a dragon. Bilbo eyed him sideways, slyly. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that because it’s too prickly to eat?”

Bushy eyebrows descended. Bifur took the flower and chewed without a grimace, maintaining eye contact until he swallowed definitively. He nodded with satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that he’d defended the hardiness of his palate.

Bilbo chuckled, “I will not doubt you again, my friend!”

…

The dragon ignored the disturbed stares of the company. He huffed a laugh and his tail twitched in anticipation. Bilbo opened his mouth and dumped an entire hydrangea plant in Bifur’s lap, roots and dirt and all.

Bifur’s head emerged from the flowery bush, glaring and grinning in equal measure. He said something that, judging by the crude finger movements, implied certain things about the marital state of Bilbo’s parents at the time of his birth. Bilbo snorted, and agreed.

The old dwarf was impossible to get rid of, after that.

…

Bifur wasn’t afraid to touch him. Bilbo understood the dwarves were a tactile race in general, but this still caught him by surprise. Even Belladonna had remained skittish around the dragon for years. The reminder of his great size and culinary habits was inescapable, after all.

Bilbo could only conclude that the head injury played some part, because there were balls of steel, then there was walking up to thirty metres of monster and using it as a surface to prop oneself up on. Bifur would sit between his toes, which were each as long as the dwarf’s body, or against his forearm, and at one point looked determined to scale his back. Bilbo put a quick end to that notion. Dignity aside, he needed the dwarf in sight to hold a decent conversation.

They communicated well; better than Bifur was used to with some dwarves, in fact. Bifur was rarely quiet, he was always broadcasting, letting the entire world know when he was angry or happy or calm. It wasn’t his fault no one was listening. It made the dwarf honest, or perhaps he just didn’t care for subtlety or manipulation. He was truly a singular being.

Bifur accused the dragon of being a mind reader. Bilbo sniffed. “It’s simple observation. The key is in the details most people do not bother to notice.”

Bifur understood his meaning, it was something they had in common. The dwarf had an acute eye, trained by the meticulous care he put into each detail of his creations.

He spent most of the days carving or creating something, sometimes running a commentary or telling stories in khuzdul. There were occasional explosive moments of activity from him, and those were always the most interesting. Killing orcs, lovable cousins and dwarflings, river stones, a balanced diet – he was passionate about many things and Bilbo couldn’t figure out a predictable pattern to it.

Bilbo listened avidly. He learnt the mystery of the axe, heard Azanulbizar from a new perspective, and so much more. Bifur wasn’t from Erebor, he carried with him a set of stories from a settlement and class Bilbo had hardly heard of. It was a story of open mines and shining coal, more refugees than the land could support, bad pay, cold winters, food shortages, love and family and loyalty.

In turn, Bilbo told Bifur about wandering between the villages of men for decades as a youngling, honing his skills on their docile life stock, before he could hunt wild game. How, at a century old, he earned to right to call himself a true dragon when he fought the master holding the territory from the North Downs to the Far Downs, from Tharbad to Rivendell.

Bilbo had been half his current size back then, and was far smaller than his opponent. But Bilbo had made himself strong while the other dragon had grown lazy and fat, taxing the hobbits with livestock. Bilbo survived and the other did not.

To Bilbo, the free meals had sounded delightful, just what he needed to recover from the battle. Until a fiery hobbit faunt, just nine years old, decided “we won’t be having any more of that”, and dragged along a certain grey wizard to accentuate her point.

They thoroughly kicked his arse when he objected. After very little diplomacy, they’d reached a simple accord: Bilbo wouldn’t eat hobbits or their animals, and in return Gandalf would spare him and Belladonna wouldn’t cry.

That was the beginning of eighty long years of Bella getting her way. Quite against his will in the beginning, Bilbo found himself with a friend, and later, something more like a sister. Before he knew it, he was folded into the Took clan, with more cousins and uncles than he knew what to do with.

Bifur cackled until Bilbo was seriously concerned he was going to choke.

“Gandalf did not vanquish me! I was more than half dead. At most, he can claim credit for nearly finishing me off. _Anyway_ –”

Bilbo then had to tell Bifur all about the stupid things he and Bella had done together, in hope of distracting him from his ignoble defeat by a baby and an old man.

That was what he was reduced to. Balancing out embarrassment by sacrificing more. The strategy was as effective as it sounds.

(Bilbo forgot about the library). 

…

Those that think elves don’t have a sense of humour, either haven’t been sassed by one or are too slow to recognise it. Bilbo knew the truth. He was not surprised the dark lord had picked elves to corrupt into orcs. A solid foundation of evil was already present.

Elrond kept a hand on the dragon’s shin, cutting off his last escape route.

Saruman. Galadriel. Radagast. Each more terrifying than the last. Bilbo suddenly felt very outnumbered. And there was no chance to hide when he was being directly introduced to them by his monstrous host.

The terrifying trio greeted him in varying degrees of interest and warmth – from the stone-cold apathy of Saruman, to a handful of excited Brown Wizard.

“I’ve never seen one of your kind so close! Not without being nearly swallowed.” Radagast poked around Bilbo’s scales like he might a horse. Bilbo endured the prodding because he couldn’t think of a way to get out of it, but he did not get through the ordeal very gracefully.

Bilbo assured the wizard that, yes, he was perfectly healthy, his territory was doing well thank you. And yes, obviously was not having trouble finding enough food, and honestly he was a _fully matured dragon_ did the wizard think he’d had good fortune handed to him? And actually, yes he _would_ like to meet the wizard’s rabbits, thanks, he’d been a bit peckish since breakfast.

That appointment mysteriously fell through. Bilbo was probably going to pay for the comment later, if Gandalf’s disapproval was anything to go by. It usually was.

But the immediate problem had been solved, and the dragon didn’t even need to call in that favour with the dwarves and demand a rescue from his own trolls.  

“Lindir put you up to this,” Bilbo guessed. “What did he promise you? What is my pain worth in the currency of elvish favours?”

“It was Erestor, in fact. Apparently, you scared his favourite assistant and she’s been avoiding the library for days.” Elrond admitted a small smile. “But since he’s become so invested in civility, it’s only fitting he must tolerate Glorfindel’s presence on a hunting trip, without a single complaint.”

Bilbo felt strangely flattered. That was a steep price. “Well, that’s all right then.”

…

“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf.” Elrond sounded uncommonly serious. His tone alone informed Bilbo this was not something he was supposed to hear. His curiosity burned.

“It is also dangerous to do nothing.”

The voices did not carry far in the gardens, near indistinguishable from the rushing water surrounding the pair. They would cross his path in moments. Bilbo pulled himself from his resting place, moved further into the hedges, and held very still.

“It is Thorin's birthright, what is it you fear?”

“Have you forgotten? A strain of madness runs deep in that family. His grandfather lost his mind, his father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

Bilbo had heard of the greed of Thrór and the impossible ambition of Thráin by word of men. The accounts were far from flattering, but they were not the most reliable source on the matters of dwarves. To hear Elrond categorise it so bluntly certainly put weight behind the rumours. A little more intrigue wove its way into the complex tale surrounding Thorin Oakenshield.

Elrond and Gandalf moved on towards the council pavilion, and Bilbo wasn’t stupid enough to follow them there. The grass was itchy against his skin. He stood, wandered towards the stream with half a mind. He took a large gulp, tipped his head back and let the water trickle down his throat.

The dwarf was in the perfect situation; a grand quest that would affect all nations for good or ill, facing challenging opposition and adventure. But the ingredients alone weren’t enough, it took a certain character, a charisma to unite a story. For all that Bilbo thought Oakenshield was a disappointing leader, he couldn’t deny the dwarf had magnetism. His story had the potential to be an epic, perhaps the kind of tale that could change a person just for hearing it.

This new variable, the inheritable madness didn’t detract from that. Was it a heroic or tragic element? Bilbo couldn’t decide. It would probably depend on the ending. It was the kind of trait that could tilt the scales either way.

Bilbo didn’t like waiting, patience didn’t come naturally, but then again it wasn’t everyday he found himself in a story as it unfolded. He decided he could make an exception.

“Dragon,” a low voice called.

Bilbo squeaked and spun, almost falling backwards over the waterfall he didn’t even remember approaching.

“Oh, Thorin,” the dragon wheezed, ignoring his pounding heart. The dwarf was on a terrace, it put them on level ground for the first time. “Give a distracted fool some warning! If you’re going to kill me I request something more glorious than a sharp incline.”

He thought he must’ve been mistaken just from the sheer improbability, but Thorin’s lips twitched.

The dwarf was silent for a long moment. Bilbo wondered if he intended to speak at all.

“You heard them?”

“Who, Elrond?” At that all-but-confession, Bilbo immediately wanted to shove his tail in his mouth. His brain had clearly been addled by the surprise. But maybe this could be what they needed to finally have a conversation. If Thorin would let him talk, ask some of the burning questions…

The dwarf saw something in his face he didn’t like and his expression became stormy.

“Do not speak to me of it, dragon. You have no bearing in this matter, and no moral ground to speak of.”

As the corner of Thorin’s coat disappeared from his sight, Bilbo understood. He remembered that there was a living feeling person behind the story. Something uncomfortable burned, like fire but cold. Shame. He didn’t like Thorin, but he should still _care_. Instead of remembering that when it counted, he’d lost himself.

“Damn it.” Realisation had come too late. Anything he could think to say rang hollow. “Life is more than a story.” He said it aloud, because maybe if he put it out there and made it indisputably real, that would make it feel true.

…

In any case, with Council distracted, sixteen ponies and their dwarves took their chance and snuck out of the valley without the elves or dragon noticing.

Some hobbitish part of Bilbo was proud. There might be hope for them yet. The dragon part was mostly disgruntled with being left behind, again.

Footsteps. The dragon froze. Sniffing around the stables, there was nowhere to hide. Maybe the person would believe he was looking for a morning snack?

Bilbo groaned when the elf showed himself. There was no chance of getting away clean, now.

“Good morning, Lindir.” How did he always _know_?

He gave up the pretence and searched for the route the dwarves had taken, just in case the elf decided to tattle and the dragon had to make a run for it.

“You're leaving with them.” Lindir’s face was stony.

Yes. The force of it hit him all at once and Bilbo almost choked. It was finally happening. He hadn’t let the thought taint his last fortnight near home, but his time was up. He suddenly felt sick. Instead, he managed a strained smile. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

Lindir was silent and grave for a reason other than being an elf.

Bilbo licked his lips, his mouth still felt too dry. “It’s the strangest thing, I might actually miss you.” He fussed around just to avoid the disapproving eyes. Elves held themselves unnaturally still. Bilbo hated that about them, their self-control was maddening, he could barely read them at all.

If Lindir was suspicious Bilbo could lie, if he disapproved Bilbo could yell, if he was relieved the dragon could leave with a jaunty wave. But Bilbo couldn’t know any of that yet; he had to wait, uncertain, for Lindir to play his cards and hope his words were honest. It was so easy to lie with words alone. Not all deceit produced the odour of fear or guilt.

“It’s time,” Bilbo told himself to fill the silence.

“It isn’t.” Lindir said with surprising vehemence. “You needn’t give your life away for this mad quest. You are just past your prime, Bilbo, you have many strong years ahead of you.”

The dragon didn’t know how to react to that.

“I know,” he agreed carefully. “I think that is why Gandalf started this now. While I still have strength left in me. This is the last chance to take Smaug down before he gets too large.”

“Gandalf should not have asked that of you. It is not your duty.”

Bilbo blinked, uncomprehendingly.

Lindir sighed. “I hope these dwarves appreciate what you’re doing for them.”

“I doubt they’d care.” Bilbo pretended that didn’t hurt. 


	4. On the move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company and Bilbo leave Rivendell for the Mountains. Keep in mind that the timeline is an unholy mesh of book and movie cannon that I have cherry-picked to suit me.

The dragon walked from the valley along the path to the mountains. His feet were cumbersome and slow, but Bilbo was grateful. It was a beautiful morning, the sunrise strong and full of colour. He was able to hear the birds and insects that tended to hold their breath when a giant shadow swooped over the area.

There wasn’t a clear boarder or a single step that took him outside his territory, just a steadily increasing feeling that his feet were carrying him further from the Shire than he’d been in a very long time.

He’d probably never return. He’d never see Belladonna or Bungo, Elrond or Glorfindel, the Gamgees or the Tooks again. Or his home; the land he’d lived for and fought for and would have died for.

Bilbo didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t like the finality of such rituals. His dear ones knew he loved them, he’d spent decades proving it. He kept moving, he didn’t look back.

His heart lingered.

…

Bilbo followed the dwarves closely because the last time Gandalf hadn’t been around to supervise, they’d found themselves some trolls. They were clearly hopeless.

He didn’t bother being discreet, but he wasn’t certain that the dwarves knew he was there until Bifur marched into his resting place with two bowls. Sharing their meal was more symbolic than filling. Bilbo beamed, feeling much lighter.

It was only right that he help with the cleaning up afterwards. Besides, as sick as Bilbo was of dwarfish stubbornness, they would have to get used to his presence sooner or later; he wasn’t going anywhere. It would be good for them. Like vegetables or medicine or a well-structured tax system.

For the first time, he approached their fire. He wasn’t confident he knew how he’d be greeted but he was curious to see what reaction his prodding would invoke. It was fairly predictable. Dwalin glared, elbowed his majesty, and both laid hands on weapons. The rest of the company followed their lead, though Bofur looked a hint pleased. Why would he… ah, coin was changing hands. They remained seated which while not strictly polite, was not openly aggressive either. They were waiting, and Bilbo suddenly had no idea what he was doing there. He fell back on good hobbit manners. Ignoring the eyes on him, he inspected their camp site, moved a rock that housed a dangerous snake and ate its occupant, and gathered enough firewood to last them the night. They didn’t relax until he wandered off to find a place to sleep.

He drifted off with the memory of a mouthful of warm soup. It would take at least two weeks to reach the mountain pass. Bilbo had high hopes that they’d be able to look at him without fearing for their lives by then.

…

After the first few days, they fell into an uneasy rhythm. He was very obviously unwelcome, but Thorin didn’t tell him to leave. Bilbo suspected this was because the king was a dwarf of his word and didn’t look forward to attempting to follow through with any threats.

Under the heavy disapproval, no one spoke to him. He even walked beside the dwarves for a few hours a day to see if one of them would crack. Thorin responded by driving the ponies as fast as he could. It was a transparent attempt to lose him and it was surprisingly effective and tiring, but Bilbo refused to give them the pleasure of complaining.

In the afternoons, he hunted on the wing. Large prey was scarce. On the fourth day, he only saw a fox and a pair of mountain goats. The fox was hardly more than a mouthful, a goat not much better.

He dumped the second goat at the campfire, to a wave of disgust. Confused, Bilbo tilted his head, observing them for any answers. Did they expect him to skin it first? But it was the bite marks they gave the most scrutiny.

“Oh, I understand.” Bilbo realised he had seen such fussiness before. “Hygiene. I thought that was something only elves and hobbits cared about.”

That was the most insulted he’d ever seen them. 

The elves hadn’t appreciated his efforts either. With a shrug, Bilbo scoffed the carcass and brought them a dried tree instead, though he stopped short of setting it on fire for them.

When the dragon was in the camp, he lent his assistance wherever they’d let him, which didn’t leave much. He mostly ended up helping Bifur, so to that end Bilbo found himself uprooting a lot of flowers.

The monotonous passive-aggressive cycle was broken on the fifth day when Ori slowed his pony and look determined to start a conversation. He was braver than the dragon had given him credit for.

The young scribe was clearly using Bilbo as a buffer between his brothers, who’d not ceased their hovering since the dragon had showed up. Bilbo was glad to be of use.

“Have you lived in the Shire long?” Ori asked.

Bated breath, as a dozen dwarves closed ranks around the pair in case they had to deal with an attack on the most adorable member of the group.

“Oh yes, most of my life.”

There was a collective sigh of relief. No one else dared speak for the rest of the conversation, in case Bilbo managed to corrupt the young lad while they weren’t paying attention. 

Bifur rolled his eyes and shot Bilbo a telling look. The dragon wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment and had to hide a grin.

The longer they spoke, the more Ori seemed to forget what he was speaking with, or perhaps he forgot to care. In any case, he became animated. It did not take long for Bilbo to decide he liked Ori. The dwarf had an astute mind, he asked the right questions, they shared a keen interest for history. He also had a terrible habit of interrupting his own stories with tangents, but Bilbo couldn’t afford to be picky.

Despite their best efforts, the rest of the Company quickly got bored. Well, except Thorin; he got moody.

It opened the floodgates. The lack of a cataclysm was enough to let the slightly less stubborn dwarves ask the questions they desperately wanted answered.

“Back with the trolls, why’d you step in?” Bofur wondered. Bilbo thought saying ‘help’ might physically pain them.

“I like you. Well maybe not you personally, but you in the general sense of the Company. Actually, no, it’s mainly just Bifur and Ori, but I don’t _dislike_ any of you.”

The miner looked about ready to take offence. Bilbo grimaced sheepishly.

“Anyway. This is just enough of a bad idea that I’d be remarkable if you pull it off. A Company of fourteen tackling a dragon, reclaiming a treasure and restoring kingdom. That’s the stuff of legends. I’ll see your story through to the best ending I can give. In a way, my interest is entirely selfish. If that makes you feel better.”

No one deserved to be eaten by trolls. That is a terrible ending. Bilbo supposed that played a part in his decision, so while not the main reason, technically it wasn’t a lie.

Bofur cheered up. “It does, actually. At the very least, you’re no _worse_ than Smaug.”

A dwarf had just sassed him. Bilbo was astounded. “I can still eat you.”

The threat held far less weight than it should.

…

The dragon gave the pony a gentle prod. She staggered back a step gave him a reproachful look, then went back to munching grass.

Bilbo was transfixed.

The rest of the ponies cowered. They hated him, but as long as they didn’t run and he didn’t have to fight the urge to chase them, he didn’t particularly care. And they didn’t run because of this one. Her attitude calmed them.

He sniffed her. Strange, she didn’t smell terribly ill. It made entirely no sense. She couldn’t simply be stupid. Nothing alive was _this_ stupid; such specimens died young.

A new smell drifted in; Balin, just back from a morning smoke. His heartrate kicked up, undoing whatever good the pipe had done. “Bilbo. What are you doing?”

“This one is broken,” he informed the dwarf. “Look! She could not care less.”

“We still need her,” the old dwarf reminded him sternly.

“Yes, yes of course. Her name?”

“Myrtle.”

He lay down and stared at her until a very uncomfortable Glóin loaded her up with supplies.

“Remarkable.”

“Get out the way, dragon.” Bilbo’s tail twitched as the stormy thundercloud that was their leader clomped past.

…

The dwarves no longer smelled of fear. They’d gotten over the shock but for most of them, the dragon was still a step too far. The best fit to their behaviour that Bilbo could find was that they were just phenomenally uncomfortable.

Ori would occasionally clam up if Bilbo smiled too wide and Óin steered his pony off the path more than once because he was too busy shooting his huge paws nervous glances.

It provided Bilbo unending amusement, at least until they got over that, too.

…

“You’re not so bad, for a dragon. Nori says you’re biding your time, but he’s just worried about Ori,” Bofur decided.

Bilbo turned his head slowly, mindful of his horns. Bofur ducked in time, it was second nature by then. “You disagree?”

“Aye. I’ve been watching you. You don’t look down on us. That’d even be understandable, at your size.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty about it,” Bilbo snorted. “The few feet between a dwarf and an elf is barely noticeable to me. Do not mistake apathy for affection.”

“You say that, but I don’t think you mean it,” the miner grinned.

Smart arsed little… but how did he know? Bilbo didn’t have any tells, he was a fantastic liar. “What makes you say that?”

Bofur adjusted his hat after his pony gave a nervous little kick. “You listen to Bifur. Many dwarves don’t give him that curtesy.”

“That’s because Bifur is smarter than the rest of you put together.” Even if some of them were turning out to be shrewder than he’d thought.

Rather than getting offended, the dwarf laughed. “Say what you want, Bilbo, I know kindness when I see it.”

That night, the Company started sharing stories again. Bofur led the development with rowdy songs that made Bilbo laugh.

…

As more of the dwarves thawed, Thorin grew surlier. Each morning darkened his mood, each conversation earned a glare.

Dwalin and Balin withdrew from the others, never straying far from their leader, and the seriousness of their discussions was plain on their faces.

Discomfort he could deal with, but the unhappiness and hostility made Bilbo’s skin crawl.

…

“What’s this?” Bilbo examined the tiny herbs in his palm. “It smells like Bella’s pies!”

“Rosemary. It goes best with meat cooked on open flames,” Bombur explained. “A pie is an odd place to put it.”

“That’d be why Bungo does most of the cooking.”

Ori stuck his nose into the conversation, curiously. “Dori uses it in tea, have you tried it? It’s nice and not too bitter.”

From outside the fire’s glow, the eldest brother huffed. “Well, at least he listens to _some_ things I say.”

Bofur slouched more comfortably against the log. “I can feel you worrying from here, Dori. He’s fine. He’s a grown dwarf, he can pick his own friends.” Dori growled and Bofur chuckled nervously.

“We should make some tea!” Bilbo lit up.

Bofur couldn’t help a small smile. He tipped his hat to better watch his brother trying to control the excited dragon and scribe. “Do you’d think Bilbo would like to hear The Miner’s Cat?” he signed to his cousin. Bifur elbowed him and said something so crass it made Bofur blush.

Ori carefully handed tea to everyone. Bofur sipped it gamely. With Ori and Bilbo watching so hopefully, it almost tasted alright.

Dori clenched his proffered cup tightly, watching the dragon measuredly. At long last, he took a sip and muttered, “You didn’t ruin it entirely.” Ori beamed.

Thorin tipped his out without even looking at it. Dwalin glanced at Ori – a mistake, he was cowed into drinking. Dwalin hated tea.

…

Bifur sat Bilbo down, handed him a large chunk of a tree and taught him to use his claws to make art. Bilbo suspected it was an effort to prevent further culinary experimentation. He and Ori had spoken about ingredients all morning, and too many ideas had started with “I wonder…” and ended with distraught noises from Bombur for the Company to feel entirely safe.

The dragon had watched Bifur carve many times. He knew the strokes and the process, theoretically. It was a lot harder than it looked. He wasn’t used to working with his hands. His movements were clumsy.

“I have new respect for your skill, my friend,” Bilbo said as a talon skated and jarred on the material.

Bifur was a good teacher and he, at least, was enjoying the challenge of Bilbo’s ineptitude.

The blob the dragon produced wasn’t one for the record books, but it wasn’t something Bilbo had ever imagined he’d be able to accomplish. It was worth every splinter.

…

Bilbo picked his way over the loose rocks. The ponies limited the pace. One had already slipped and developed a worrying limp.

He crouched by some mushrooms. They were the edible kind, fortunately, not the type that make young hobbits hear colours. Bombur would appreciate the extra supplies.

“Were you cursed?” The question came like a bucket of cold water.

Bilbo blinked up at young Kíli. Until then, the princes hadn’t dared speak to the source of their uncle’s frustration. The dragon was surprise the others didn’t step in, he would’ve thought Thorin, at least, would have something to say about consorting with the enemy. But it seemed they, too, were curious for the answer.

“What? No, of course not.” But then he realised, with amusement. “Being a dragon isn’t a disease. You can’t catch it.”

“But why are you different? Smaug is a monster, you’re like a very large hobbit.”

“We’re not different?” That may have been the wrong thing to say. “Not fundamentally.” That certainly made it worse. “Well, I mean there are differences in personality, the normal variation you get within a species.” He was just digging a hole now. It looked like a grave from where he was standing. Bilbo groaned, he was making a mess of this. “You wish to know why I don’t conquer civilisations in my spare time?”

Bilbo focused on the nod and ignored the uneasy look that accompanied it. 

“Practicality. I need people around. The benefits outweigh the risks.”

There were several expectant looks, but no one volunteered to prod the conversation along. Thorin was glowering, after all, it wouldn’t do to look too interested.

“It is very difficult to add to my hoard alone. Written work was not made with my species in mind. I could persuade people to tell me stories, of course, but I learnt early on that they tend to forget the important details when they're shitting themselves. It can ruin a tale.”

“The differences are more than that,” Nori pointed out. “You aren’t like Smaug. He would kill for gold.”

Nori could only say that because he’d never tried to hide a book out of the dragon’s reach. That might distress them, but it was better to be honest. The dwarves were opening their minds; they would not take it the wrong way.

“The drive to gather and possess is the same,” Bilbo admitted. “The difference is our interests. The hoard is a dragon’s identity; we build everything we are around that core value. An antisocial interest usually make an unpleasant dragon, but even if there is a conflict of values, any other need will place second to protecting the hoard. Morals, dreams, even survival. I am not as paranoid or defensive as most dragons because I don’t see you all as potential thieves. It’s hard to fear loss when the thing I value most can’t be taken from me.”

Nori and Dori relaxed, and he knew he’d played the odds correctly.

Dragons and people are not so different, Bilbo had learnt. Everyone decides what they value; gold is a popular choice because it’s importance is constantly asserted, but gold only has value because people ascribed it. It is, ultimately, just metal.

“We are all the product of our choices and circumstances, are we not?” Bilbo mused. “The Shire puts more stock in handkerchiefs, gossip or food than it does in precious metals.”

“But why would you pick stories?” Ori wondered.

Bilbo smiled lightly. “Why ever not? They are the best kind of thing to treasure. I carry them with me. If I trade them, my hoard only grows. Stories only lose value when you forget them.” The idea of a dragon forgetting anything was frankly preposterous.

“It just seems like an odd thing for a dragon to like,” the scribe shrugged.  

“Yes, well, you’re basing your expectations off the handful of dragons that have raided your cities. Any other is bound to surprise you. I’m hardly the strangest.”

“There are other dragons?” Kíli asked the question that should’ve been posed weeks ago.

“Yes, a few.”

“Why haven’t we ever heard of them?” Nori asked suspiciously, because that is how Nori did most things.  

“Young dragons are cautious, we can’t rampage wherever we please like fire drakes, that is asking for a whole storm of trouble. Even hobbits brought a wizard down on me. So we live in the wild lands and only kick up a fuss when other prospective dragons enter our territories. But we're not common. The only other sizable dragons in the west are sea dwellers. There's a serpent on the Forlindon coast, another in the Belegaer sea, I believe.”

“And the rest?” the prince asked.

“One roams in Fangorn Forest and Rohan, there’s another in Southern Gondor somewhere, and one in the Sea of Rhun – she hoards fish, by the way, and you thought I was impractical!” he tapped his chin, thoughtfully. “There might be one in the southern Greenwood; rumour indicates there’s certainly something very nasty there, in any case. Oh, and some scrape by in the eastern desserts. No doubt there are more in the South. The strongest tend to live in the north and jostle over the prime territory up there. Smaug is one of those.”

“But you would fight him anyway.”

A thoughtful silence descended, uncomfortably heavy.

Bilbo coughed. “Apparently, I have a death wish.”

Nori snorted and Ori patted Bilbo on the ankle. “You can take him!”

Thankfully, that cleared the tension. Well, mostly. Bifur was unhappy, but the biggest flash of discomfort came from a dwarf Bilbo did not expect. Thorin paused in checking the tack on his pony. Bilbo was hard pressed to say whether the leader was angry or pained. Or a combustible combination of both.  

“There will be no more talk of dragons,” he barked out.

Ori jumped and Nori made himself scarce. Kíli looked surprised, but Bilbo was only annoyed. They’d been making such progress! He abandoned his mushrooms and took a slow step towards the king.

“At least let me tell you what all I can about Smaug,” he implored reasonably. Past evidence suggested that logic was not the best way to get through to dwarves, but he was running out of options. “This is important. Dragons change quite a bit as they age, you do not want to walk in unprepared.”

A pause, as Thorin battled with himself.

“Age and size are linked,” Bilbo pounced on the weakness at the perfect moment. “I can tell how old he was when he arrived and how big he will be now, as well as his weaknesses and strengths.”

Thorin’s hatred of Smaug could be counted on for something. It was quite reliable. Oakenshield gave an impatient gesture to continue. The Company, distracted from their task guiding the ponies, closed in to sate their curiosity. Bilbo very carefully did not smile smugly.

“Theoretically, dragons can live forever, but we tend to die young. Most only live to the turning point at 250 years, which we call middle-age. Dragons grow indefinitely, provided we have a hoard or territory large enough to support ourselves. Suitable lands are very rare; the space required is simply enormous. There are many more dragons than territories, so they are highly contested. There are always younger, fitter dragons looking for their chance. You get too old, too slow, your scales get too brittle… it doesn’t take much. We’re rather fixated on killing each other. Territories have a fast turnaround.” He sighed. “But there’s a tipping point, unfortunately, when sheer size makes up for any weakness of age. If a dragon has managed to survive that long, they earn the title fire drake.”

Dori huffed at the word.

“Smaug is the oldest dragon we have seen in many centuries, yet he reached that milestone by chance. As I understand it, he was similar to my current size when he came to your mountain, yes? Then he was close to middle-age. He must’ve had a territory; maybe he was chased off it, doomed to wither away. Whatever the case, he was saved by the gate. When he sealed himself in, he couldn’t be challenged. He will have been sustaining himself on his hoard, sleeping and growing, and when he wakes he will find he has crossed through the weakest stage and emerged untouchably large. He will be very, very hungry. No life in sight of the mountain will be safe.”

The dwarves looked grim. Bilbo hoped they hadn’t been expecting good news, that would’ve been impressively naïve given what this quest entailed. He could offer them some slim hope, however.

“When Smaug first arrived, his armour would have been nigh impenetrable. Fortunately, the hide, particularly the underbelly, grows brittle and weaker with age; it is possible to break through. The new problem is that due to his bulk, nothing short of a windlance will drive a weapon deep enough for a swift killing blow.”

“We could visit Dáin, get ourselves some dwarfish war machinery…” stroking his beard, Balin turned his eye on their leader.

“I doubt there will be time. We’ll be hard pressed to make the mountain by Durin’s day as it stands,” Thorin pointed out.

“We could send word, have him meet us there.”

Thorin shook his head bitterly. “For that we’d need the Arkenstone.”

“And should Nori fail to find it without waking a certain lizard, what then?” Balin pressed.

“Gandalf’s plan,” Bilbo pipped up, before the dwarves could work themselves into a tiff. “The old fashioned way. We fight him ourselves, together.”

He saw Thorin’s lip curl, doubtlessly ready to bestow upon them an unhelpful opinion on the topic. Bilbo hastily interrupted. “I can do enough damage to wound him, if not kill him outright. It will be a long, bloody battle. If it comes down to who will bleed to death first, I assure you I am smaller, it will hardly be a contest. And then you will be left alone with a very grumpy dragon. You have to work with me, Thorin.”

Oakenshield paused, glaring at him. The expression was difficult to read. If he was offended, annoyed or thoughtful, he tended to employ a gruffness that made the body language too similar to decipher.

“Enough standing around,” Thorin muttered after an uncomfortable moment of eye contact. “Let us get the ponies through this mess before nightfall.”

…

“I suppose there’s nothing for it,” Dori sighed, put-upon. He held his hand out to shake. Bilbo raised a finger, warily, and was immediately caught in a very firm grip. “My brother has become quiet attached to you. I don’t approve.”

Ori groaned, “I’m sorry Bilbo.”

Dori smiled. “But he enjoys your company. You make him happy. The moment that changes…”

Bilbo could feel the pressure. “That’s very clear.”

“Lovely, then there shouldn’t be a problem between us,” the dwarf said sincerely, without a trace of irony.

Bilbo remembered that these crazy people had already signed on to face down a dragon. Would they do it again to protect kin? In a heartbeat. But it still took courage to stare one down and threaten it. Bilbo could respect that.

…

“Fíli,” Bilbo greeted, curiously. The young dwarf stood between the dragon and the fire, and he was either itching for a fight or thought he was about to get one anyway.

After a moment considering his words, Fíli said, “Bifur is confident you can help us. He says you’ve killed dragons before. So, talk.”

Bilbo brightened, and patted the log beside him. “Take a seat.”

He did, warily.

The dragon flicked the stick he’d been chewing on back into the flames, granting the prince his full attention. “Now, do you wish the hear about my past misadventures, or are you interested in the strategy?”

“I may wish to hear about your battles later, for now I am more concerned about drakes that still live.”

“Fair enough.” Bilbo was not surprised. Though clearly interested, Fíli was not as easily distracted as his brother. “Shall we start with weaponry of choice?”

The prince rolled his eyed. “Perhaps you forgot dwarves have a longstanding feud with dragons, we have tested our weaponry thoroughly.”

“Cocky princeling,” Bilbo muttered without heat, sufficiently humbled. “Fine, tell me how you would do it.”

“Swords, spears and bows for personal weapons. No maces, axes or hammers.”

“The scales are easier to rip off than smash through. You would have more luck with a chisel than a hammer,” Bilbo agreed. “Smaug’s armour might be brittle enough to knock loose with blunt force, but don’t count on it. Go for sharp and pointy.”

Fíli grinned.

Bilbo eyed him. “I don’t know why you’re smirking, you wouldn’t last long.”

“I’d do better than Dwalin.”

He allowed his amusement to show. “Your blades aren’t long enough. Steal Orcrist from your uncle, that one is enchanted. Now _there’s_ a blade that could draw blood against me.” He waved a hand at the tangent like it was a bothersome fly, before they could get too off topic. “Anyway, you should skip the bows. Arrows and daggers are merely annoying. They may slide off the plates and into the boundaries, but even then, anything small enough to exploit a gap is too small to do real damage.”

“But in the right place, an arrow could kill.”

The dragon bristled. Honestly, did he look _fragile_? “Even in a perfectly placed hole in the armour, or through the eyes and mouth, a normal arrow would not be long enough or strike deep enough to take down a dragon of _my_ size; it wouldn’t even tickle Smaug. No, if you don’t have war machines or poison, you’d do better with spears.”

Or claws and teeth, the bigger the better. Or a wizard.

“Bows are still useful for strategy. The archers could shoot your eyes while the warriors attacked your underbelly.”

Bilbo effected the visage of the unimpressed. “We aren’t helpless when blind. I, for one, usually keep my eyes closed when I grapple, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t see me coming,” Fíli pointed out.

“I wouldn’t need to. You’d be screaming and on fire. It’s an age-old strategy: flail dramatically and scorch everything until it stops twitching.”

“I’d use the opportunity to hide and attack you from afar.”

“Well, you’d prolong your life very briefly, but if you want to take me down you need to find my weak spots.”

Fíli brightened at the challenge.

Several minutes later of fierce debate later, the volume had risen significantly.

“Wings.”

“Delicate. You might even stop me flying. Not fatal.”

“It would be a good first move.”

“Only if you can then find a place to hit me that would hurt. Which you have not.”

“Underjaw?”

Ruthless little monster. Good to know. “Weak, yes, but do you really want to get that close to teeth and fire? You don’t have an army behind you, you can’t afford the sacrificial charge. I can eat a man in full armour without choking on him, I’ll have you know.”

“Tendons, back of the legs.”

“Are you _blind?_ That’s one of the most heavily armoured places on my body!” Bilbo threw an arm up in despair. An unhappy grumble cut in. “Sorry Bifur.” The dwarf shot the dragon a look that would give Gandalf a run for his money. He sighed, “Sorry Fíli.”

Fíli smirked. Bilbo ran a hand down his muzzle with a groan and decided he hadn’t seen it. “A suggestion? Underarms. The scales don’t overlap. They’re like studs set in the skin, it stretches when we move. Which you would’ve _noticed_ , if you – ah, never mind.”

Bifur nodded, satisfied.

Fíli tugged his moustache thoughtfully. “How would I hit you there?”

“I don’t know! Use your dwarven ingenuity. And don’t start with catapults again, that is never going to work.”

“What are you two talking about?” Kíli asked.

“How to kill – oh, er… each other,” Bilbo coughed awkwardly, and they exchanged a look. “Well that just ruined the fun.”

“We were having fun?” Fíli muttered cheekily.

Bilbo elbowed him right off the log. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

…

Thorin was agitated, his temper short even with Dwalin. Bilbo caught the leader staring and raised the bar, conveying a challenge with his brows. He was sick of being glared at.

Bilbo stood, “I’ll be back in a moment, Bifur. We need more firewood,” and walked back down the path to the sparse tree cover to wait. He couldn’t see well in the dark, but his hearing was excellent and dwarven boots were not discrete.

Thorin had no trouble navigating on the moonless night. He stepped beside Bilbo to look out over the land. A breeze, as if summoned, ruffled his hair. He was… intense, always. Never relaxing for a moment, too busy brooding majestically.

But he wasn’t afraid, and if that wasn’t the problem, it was time the dragon found out just what _was_ chewing him up inside.

“They can’t hear us.” Finally. Bilbo could speak to the arse without worrying about usurping his authority and pissing him off further. “Say you piece. Let’s put an end to this now.”

“I will not fall for your trickery,” Thorin muttered harshly. “You want our gold, you are misleading my people for your own gains.”

Bilbo git his teeth and tried not to growl. “If I wanted riches, I would have them already. There would be little you could do to stop me. Do you think I am blind? There are coins sewed into Nori’s coat and my own silver spoons in his pockets. There are platinum beads hidden in Oin’s beard. The lining of Balin’s pipe and Glóin’s portraits. Elrond’s treasury. The bloody troll hoard a short flight away.”

“A paltry amount compared to what you stand to gain when we open the doors to Erebor.” His tone was annoyingly blank. Bilbo couldn’t see Thorin’s expression clearly in the dark, frustratingly.

Words weren’t enough for some people, actions mean more, but with no way to prove Thorin wrong all Bilbo can do was try not to prove him right for the rest of his days.

Bilbo didn’t understand the dwarf’s hesitation; it was a risk for Thorin to trust him, but it seemed a logical one to take. Worst case scenario, Bilbo killed Smaug and claimed Erebor for his own, but the dwarves were planning a dragon raid; why should they care which drake they ended up fighting? Whichever dragon survived would be injured and easier to defeat.

“So, I’ve spent my entire life until this point resisting to set up an opportunity I didn’t even know existed? Oh, this is brilliant,” Bilbo muttered sarcastically. “Next you’re going to tell me the grey hermit is also just after your treasure and we engineered this whole quest between us.”

“You will betray us.”

Except… no, there was a set to his shoulders, a tension in his frame. “You don’t entirely believe that,” Bilbo realised. Thorin glowered so heavily that Bilbo could see it through the gloom. He was _right_. Bilbo narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What aren’t you saying?”

Sullen silence. Thorin turned away. “If you truly care for these dwarves, you should leave now. Before you betray their trust.”

And they were back to this again. “Did you listen to anything I said today? I can help you.” Bilbo’s words hissed through his bared teeth.

“You expect me to believe you would fight with dwarves, the natural enemy of your kind, against you own kin?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Dragons do not pair, we have no community, we measure success by killing each other – that is hardly an unbreakable bond.”

“Then why are you here?” Thorin whirled, voice harsh. “If you care nothing for your kind then it is none of your concern. Go home.”

It took the wind out of Bilbo’s sails. He paused, uncertain. “Gandalf asked me to keep you alive.” That line that felt less like the whole answer and more like an excuse each time he repeated it.

Thorin snorted. “You admit you are not capable of loyalty, honour, good-will, but somehow the wizard is an exception?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. Our loyalty is not common since there are none alive who would who be given it by default, but it can be earned.”

“I do not believe you. You will come no further with us.”

“You don’t have believe it. I am going to that mountain, and on Durin’s Day there will be at least one dead dragon at the bottom of it. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Bilbo took a measured step closer. Thorin glared imperiously up at him. “Don’t test me. I can out-stubborn even you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo stormed off without another word. He ripped a dead bush from the rock to feed the fire. The dwarves would need it, the chill was setting in. The dragon made it back to camp before Thorin; the dwarf had probably gone off to brood.

Not wanting to talk to anyone, the dragon curled up near the ponies. Myrtle didn’t judge him.

He was just dozing off when Thorin stomped past him. “No one is to speak to the dragon. It is not part of this Company, it is not welcome among us,” he announced without warning.

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open in surprise. It looked quite fearsome. Thorin was facing away, and didn’t flinch like half the others.

“Do not give it another meal, Bombur. He will receive no help from us.”

Bilbo kind of wanted Thorin to kick him. If the king stuck his foot in the dragon’s mouth, no one could blame him if he bit it.

“What?” Bofur was aghast, Bifur angry. Ori just stared wide-eyed, shocked. Fíli, Kíli and Dori looked uncomfortable. No one objected; they couldn’t, he was their king. He was a dwarf, their kin, one of them where Bilbo was alien.

When eyes turned to the dragon they were wary, fearing his response. That hurt. He refused to give Thorin the satisfaction. Spitefully, he came closer and lay down around the camp, a giant windbreak against the constant gusts. He made sure to stick his head right next to Thorin’s bedroll. Part of him – the dreadful part – wanted to find out just how far he could push his luck before they’d draw swords. A little further, apparently. Thorin tried to pretend he wasn’t there, but Bilbo was satisfied to see he didn’t get much sleep that night.


	5. Giants

It was a bad afternoon for sightseeing. The clouds had set in, visibility was poor. It would probably rain again soon.

The dragon leapt onto a higher ledge for a better vantage point. The tree line started hundreds of meters below them, there was only rock and snow above. Ahead, the path wound on. But Bilbo wasn’t looking at that. He was finally looking back. He felt the pull of home down to his bones. The rolling green hills, the bright forests filled with game, the notable lack of Durins; it was all just lying in wait.

“Go home, dragon. Your books and your hearth await you,” Thorin jumped on his moment of weakness and the spell was broken.

With one last glance, Bilbo settled beside Bifur with a heavy thud. The dwarves had complied with the silence. That left the toy maker as the only one Bilbo could talk to.

“He respects you,” Bifur said with the motion of his body.

Bilbo expressed his disbelief with a snort. Unfortunately, that made the ever present, stale trace of goblins more obvious.

“Aye, he’s been a bit strange. But maybe he’s still getting used to the idea of a good dragon. Thorin’s spent his entire life hating Smaug. Give him time.”

The dragon wasn’t optimistic. More likely, it was going to be a long few months to Erebor. After that depressing thought, Bilbo had to throw himself off a cliff and enjoy a few calming moments of freefall.

“The path narrows ahead,” Balin called from front.

Thorin dismounted. “Tie the ponies in a line. Bombur, follow them from the rear.”

Narrow was fine – they’d all dealt with narrow before. They’d walked a track along the top of a ridge just yesterday, sleep slopes promised painful falls on either side. But that was trivial compared to what Bilbo saw when he swooped ahead. The path was pushing the boundary between narrow and absent.

The dwarves found out soon enough. The going became more difficult, stretches of the trail were impossible for the dragon to land on. Bilbo couldn’t even fly too close to the dwarves, lest he blow them right off the mountain or stampede the ponies. It was perilous going, so of course it started pissing down.

“Are we sure this is the path?” Nori yelled above the rain. They were making slow progress. A pony halfway down the train was determined to be stubborn and there wasn’t room for a dwarf to go back and hustle it along.

Balin rubbed his forehead. “It doesn’t look familiar.”

“Paths never do, in these parts,” Óin muttered.

Dori looked ahead and didn’t like what he saw: jutting rocks, sharp corners, uneven and slippery footing. “It’s barely wide enough for the ponies, what if it narrows further? They can’t turn back.”

“Then the dragon will carry them until it widens,” Thorin decided. “If he insists on being here, he will be useful.”

Circling above them, Bilbo chuckled. The poor creatures were bug eyed even with their hooves on solid ground. “Oh, they’d love that.”

The dragon glided through the valley. The water drummed on his wings but it did not perturb him. He carefully surveyed the track and it would be wide enough, barely, but steep hills turned into sheer cliffs on either side. Not an ideal place for a dragon, to put it lightly.

The rain was getting heavier, actually becoming a nuisance. The large drops that smacked into his horns were echoing through the hollow space, interfering with his hearing. He shook his head, irritated, but there was nothing he could do about it; there was no shelter in sight.  

There was a colossal bang and blinding flash all at once. Bilbo shrieked and his heart leapt to his throat as he dove on instinct. When the spots cleared from vision, he could clearly see the cliff face he was careering towards. Higher thoughts didn’t make it thought the haze of panic, he just knew he _had_ to land. He didn’t adjust his course, he beat his wings forward and his body pivoted at the extreme deceleration, head and tailing swinging in. He smacked into the cliff chest first, his legs and tail slammed against the rock in turn. He felt his ribs groan, but not the pain. His claws grasped desperately at the crevasses in the rock, but it was flaky shale, it tore away and the dragon was sliding, faster and faster and –

A hand caught, he stopped. Scrabbling desperately at the cliff, Bilbo ripped into the stone until there were foot holds. He plastered himself to the face and hung on, hooking the claws at his wing joints over the rock for good measure.

Safe.

His chest was heaving, his breaths came in quick pants, his heart worked overtime. The discomfort registered as actual pain. Awareness returned, but so did wonder, because _how in the world had he pulled that off?_

He looked down; the rocks loosened his struggle were still tumbling and bouncing down the cliff. Up; the rain pounded in his eyes, the path was there somewhere.

Another bang and flash, too close – he flinched, closed his eyes and made himself breathe.

Reluctantly, and ever so slowly, he loosened a hand hold. When he didn’t slide, he lifted it off entirely and set it higher. One foot after another, he slowly, _exhaustingly_ , dragged his bulk back up to the road.

He stopped just short of pulling the ledge off the mountain (the dwarves would not appreciate it) and placed his forehead against the rock with a groan. “I am not made for this vertical world.”

A brief rest, then he starting shuffling sideways. He’d let the dwarves catch up. He didn’t think he could fluke a second landing.

…

For once, the dwarves spotted him first. They rounded a corner and their shouted conversation barely reached him over the storm. 

Balin paused. “Is that…?”

“Bilbo!” called Bofur.

“What is he doing _now_?”

Bilbo twisted his neck to look over his shoulder, up at them. “Oh, just resting. Taking in the sights.”

They didn’t buy it.

They marched directly overhead. Another strike hit while he was adjusting his footing and Bilbo almost slipped.

“You’re afraid of lightning!”

He looked up sharply. Nori was staring down at him, a peculiar look on his face. Bilbo pushed down the shame; it was perfectly fine to be wary of things bigger and more abstract than yourself. Starvation, disease, and, as it happened…

“I’m _sensibly cautious_ of being electrocuted and paralysed and _falling out of the sky_ ,” he corrected, a tad hysterically.

(Well, maybe more than cautious if he was being honest.)

“Are you alright?” Ori hovered, anxiously.

“Fine,” Bilbo lied. “Keep going.”

The ponies passed. Bilbo kept very still.

“We must find shelter!” Thorin called, in the distance.

Bilbo glared at the cliff. Biting it would not help. He felt around for a half decent hand hold. The rock in his path was overhanging at too steep an angle, he’d have to go down and around. It was mossy and slippery as well. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

There was a thundering crash. He felt it through his feet and he clung with all his might as a rockslide crashed down on the path ahead. He could still hear the dwarves and ponies, though they’d moved out of sight, they were nervous but uninjured.

He picked up the pace, fumbling. Something moved, in the area he’d just passed. Bilbo’s eyes shot to it. There was nothing but rock.

Then it moved again – the _mountain_ moved.

The dragon’s grip went slack with horror. The stone rippled, an enormous being pulled itself out, and no sooner had it done so, that a boulder almost as large as Bilbo came out of nowhere and collided with an explosion of noise and shingle.

An avalanche of sharp shards raced towards the dragon’s exposed body. There was nothing for it; he bunched his legs, twisted, and hurled himself back into open air.

Straight into a battle field.

The scale took his breath away. He was like a hatchling facing up against the dragons of old, a small fragile speck against the mountainous Ancalagon.

He dodged a boulder and crashed straight into the arm that’d released it. Bilbo shook stars from his eyes and the gravel from his horns, and the giant didn’t even notice.

But the worst part – oh Eru, the dwarves, they were helpless. Bilbo wheeled about. He rounded a giant torso and the spotted the Company, huddled on the cliff. A giant was heading right for them – no, not for them, another giant. A rift split the rock, dividing the Company in two.

The world slowed down to Bilbo’s eyes, but even then, it all went wrong very quickly.

As the rock moved beneath their feet, the ponies’ nerve broke. They stampeded. One slipped and fell, but they were tied together, it dragged the others down. Several tiny dots, the latter half the Company that had been trapped on the far side of the divide with them, were knocked clear off the mountain.

“NO!” Thorin’s agonised shout was the last thing Bilbo heard. The noise filtered out, a dead calm descended over his mind. He may have roared, he didn’t recall.

He remembered dodging, ploughing through clouds of shale. He rushed down, harder, faster, tucking in his wings to clear the gap between the attacking giant’s legs.

His wings shot out, straining to control the turn. He lashed out and snagged Fíli from the air on the way down.

Bofur bounced off a wing. Bilbo flipped, stalled, and the dwarf crashed into his waiting arms.

Another beat, another dive. There: Dwalin was hanging onto Ori, the giant leg was moving closer. So was the valley floor. The dragon’s deadly spiral down did not abate; he banked, shoving Fíli and Bofur into a single hand as he reached out with the other.

He grabbed Ori and Dwalin, maybe squashed them a little in his haste, but that enormous shin was too close and all he could do was clutch the dwarves to his chest and turn his shoulder into the rock. It was a heavy blow, he was numb. It pushed him into a wider spiral. Too slow.

He saw the leg hit the ponies, saw their wide white eyes, saw them bounce sickeningly and tumble down the rock face, but Bombur had been behind them and he was nowhere to be found. Bilbo dove lower, beneath the poor beasts, and scanned the sky above.

The ground was so, so close now. Bilbo could see the splashes from the stones hitting the river. The walls of the valley pinned him in on either side, narrowing, limiting.

A flash of orange. He couldn’t misjudge this, there wouldn’t be another chance. He pulled up so suddenly that one of the dwarves slid through his toes, stopped from escaping only by the strong grip of the others. They were probably screaming.

He didn’t miss: he grabbed Bombur on the way up. His wings clapped liked the thunder around them. The wind whistled through small holes he hadn’t even noticed had been punched by the sharp rocks.

He flew up, gaining height. The view above was worse than he could’ve imagined. A giant was falling, it blocked out the sky. The valley was too narrow, there was no way past. They’d be entombed.

Bilbo flipped and flew along the valley. It was a race. A hopeless one. Bilbo was good with distances; the giant was too close and falling too fast.

The valley walls flew past at a dangerous pace, Bilbo pushed harder. The giant hit the mountain and shattered. Bilbo cleared its hips. He angled down, for any extra seconds the distance could give. He passed its knees.

The dragon skimmed the valley floor. There was rock everywhere; mere metres below them, walls almost touching his wing tips on either side, and raining down. But there was clear sky ahead.

He cleared the main body with hardly any room to spare and the giant slammed into the valley floor, but he couldn’t relax. The debris had caught up with them, and Bilbo could hardly manoeuvre at this pace. His entire focus was on the exact motions of this body, contorting it though the constantly changing gaps. He could barely keep up.

Eventually, inevitably, he made a mistake. A boulder hit his tail and threw him wildly off balance. He was too low, there wasn’t space to recover. He hit the river bank, throwing up an explosion of pebbles. The dragon was tossed about like a ragdoll, rolling with force that threatened to tear his limbs out of their sockets.

Something in his shoulder gave under the barrage. It made it harder to hold onto the dwarves, but Bilbo didn’t let go. He couldn’t. They wouldn’t stand a change.

They shuddered to a stop. Bilbo rolled over, pulled the dwarves under him, and weathered the storm, rock after falling rock.

There was a horrible ringing in his head.

…

“Bilbo!”

“Is he…?”

“He’s breathing. And I’d know, his chest is flattening me.”

There was weight pressing down on his entire being. Bilbo groaned. “Stop kicking me, dwarf. It’s been a _long_ day.”

The dragon raised his head, with effort, and upended the slab that had be leaning on his nose.

He moved a leg gingerly, and when that didn’t result too much pain, kicked harder. Shale slid off with a clatter.

Huffing and groaning, the dwarves pulled themselves out through the gap.

By the grace of Eru, they hadn’t been stepped on by another giant. In fact, the giants had vanished entirely. Good riddance.

Bilbo lay his head back down in the crater of his own making. He wanted to sleep for a week. There were boulders pinning his wings, still, pulling them behind his back. He should have been feeling a lot more pain. He didn’t know if the lack was ultimately a good or bad thing.

“If you were wondering, Fíli,” he said mechanically. “That’s a pretty effective way to take down a dragon. Stone giants. Put it on the list.”

The prince probably said something back, maybe even something clever, but Bilbo wasn’t listening. The flow of rain and river in front of his nose was hypnotising, peaceful.

“Mahal’s hairy balls, but that’s a lot of rock.”

Bilbo cocked open an eye. Dwalin gazed in awe at the new hill blocking the valley, just behind them.

“Well that’s a problem,” Bofur murmured, looking at it with a professional eye. “It’s damming the river.”

Bilbo’s head shot up in alarm. Was he imagining it, or was the water lever rising. It’d reach his claws and higher, and he was _pinned down_ –

“Breathe, Bilbo, calm down!”

He roared furiously and kicked out. The dwarves swore and leapt out of the way. His talons connected with the largest boulder, but he couldn’t reach it properly, it barely moved.

He bathed it in flames, and when that didn’t do anything he lunged at it, but blinding pain pulled a shriek from him. His shoulder, the injured and pinned one, didn’t appreciate the move. It was holding him back; it’d be the death of him. He bit it, until he tasted blood. It hurt, burned, of course it did, but the alternative –

“Hey!” A hammer, out of nowhere, smacked him in the face. Bilbo blinked. “Stop it!” Ori yelled at him. He looked close to tears.

Bilbo turned back to the rock, but Bofur jumped into his field of view. “Bilbo, listen to me. We’ll get you out. We have plenty of time, days if we need it, alright?” The dwarf was grim faced, and he grabbed Bilbo’s snout in a futile effort to keep it still, staring first at one eye, then the other. “You don’t need to do a thing, just lay down. Don’t hurt yourself. We’d never leave you like this, you hear me? _Never_.”

And Bilbo believed him.

Bofur didn’t leave, not for a second. “Bombur, see if you can find my mattock.” It ended up in his hand, and the dwarf smiled. “You remember all those stories I told you about working in the mines? This is just like that. We’ll be done in no time.”

The first obstacle was getting to the boulder. “Your wings are bleeding.”

“You can step on the membrane. It’ll grow back.” It was the rest of him he was worried about. To guess, Bilbo would say he’d broken bones in his wings and rear ankle, had a shoulder that was at the very least sprained, he might have cracked his ribs, and he’d heavily bruised just about everything else. Hopefully Gandalf could help; he’d done it before, but Bilbo had been younger and fitter back then.

While Bofur managed the operation, Fíli, Dwalin and little Ori assisted where they could. After a quick display that turned Dwalin’s scepticism to envy, Ori did the heavy lifting.

Each swing of the tools shifted the rock against Bilbo’s wing bones. Pain was returning. He grit his teeth and tried to focus on Bombur instead. He was gathering the scattered supplies that still remained. Most of it was buried with the ponies, too deep to reach. Poor Myrtle.

The stone was steadily carted away. Bilbo refused to watch. “How does it look?”

“It’s a clean break,” Fíli said steadily, contrarily to the uptick in his heartbeat. “You’ll be just fine.”

Bilbo sighed. “You’re lying. I can smell it.”

“Óin will know what to do,” Fíli didn’t back down. “Everything is going to be fine. We’ll find our way out and meet up with the others.”

Bilbo didn’t point out the that others had been in the same hellish storm. There was no way to know if they were even alive. Bilbo suspected Fíli was all too aware of that, since it’d been his brother standing on that divide.

…

“There we go! That’s the last one, Bilbo.”

The dragon rolled upright, carefully, and tried to tuck his wings back in. Even the dwarves winced at the pain.

Fíli evaluated him slowly. “Well, we’ll make do. Can you walk?”

Walk was a strong word. Bilbo could limp. Slowly.

“We should get to higher ground.” The waterline wasn’t moving rapidly, but it was certainly rising.

“Well that’s a problem,” Dwalin rumbled, leaning heavily on his hammer. “The valley follows the path, we need to stick down here if we want to find the way out of these mountains.”

“Let’s get moving then.”

“Wait,” Bilbo sniffed. “There’s more of our supplies over there.”

“My hat!” Bofur laughed, astonished. “I thought I’d lost it this time for sure. That’d be a shame, with all it’s been through.” Bilbo perked up, and Bofur realised the wording might’ve been a mistake. “Ah, Bilbo that's the one story I'll never tell. No, no give it back! You’re not too tall or injured for me to climb.”

…

“We’re surrounded by goblins,” Bilbo growled. He eyed the dark caves and crevasses in the walls, but he couldn’t watch all of them. The pests were keeping their distance, for now, taunting to test his limits and his patience.

The dwarves, walking under the shelter of his belly, readied their weapons.

“Form up around Bilbo’s injured leg, give him room to move. Dwalin will guard the rear, Bombur defend Dwalin’s injured side. Bofur to the left, Ori the right.”  

Fíli surprised Bilbo. He stepped up to the leading role and pulled it off. The dwarves didn’t blink. Ori took Dwalin’s hammer while the warrior armed himself with his dual axes.

“There’s a bold one,” Dwalin bristled. Bilbo followed his gaze. A goblin was trailing them in the open. In range. He grinned, felt the fiery churn of dark satisfaction, and released it in a torrent of flames.

The goblin’s squeals cut off with a crackle and a pop, like the sound of soup overboiling in an oven. That’s kind of what it looked like, too.

Bombur flinched and tighten his grip on his weapon by instinct. Dwalin pouted and grumbled something about cheating. Bofur whistled, gamely. “That’s a fine trick.”

Bilbo had expected worse.

…

Bilbo’s remaining limbs supported his weight awkwardly, at all the wrong angles. Two and half functioning legs was just not good enough. He was built too heavily for his joints to sustain the load for any stretch. Before long they swelled and ached. The dwarves weren’t stupid or blind; the concerned looks they sent him increased in potency and frequency. The dragon was in too much pain to be heartened by it.

Each stumbled step jarred his back leg and grated his bones. Given his injured shoulder, the event wasn’t rare. But the dwarves were desperate to push on and Bilbo refused to give in.

“We should rest.”

The dragon’s head whipped to Fíli in surprise. He appeared determined, looking at Dwalin, not for guidance, but ready to argue.

Quarrelling turned out to be unnecessary. “I’ll keep watch,” the warrior hefted his axes with rough motions, the look on his face dark and closed. It was a look that said he was eager for goblins to come along so he had the chance to hack something to pieces.

Bilbo sank to the ground. He was too aware of the time they didn’t have, the sacrifice the dwarves were making. It made him uncomfortable. But Dwalin could easy cause him a lot of trouble, and for now at least he’d chosen not to – for that Bilbo was grateful.

“He’s not angry with you,” Fíli said quietly. “He’s worried about Thorin.”

Dwalin’s stance was tense, his shoulders set uncomfortably straight. “Oh no, he’s angry,” Bilbo assured the prince.

“Because he doesn’t know how to worry any other way. Uncle is his best friend. They’ve been through so much together. Kíli used to think they were invincible. But to be separated…”

He trailed off, a hitch in his voice. Then he shook his head and fixed his mouth in an unnatural smile. “When Dwalin’s rage is directed at you, believe me, you will hear about it.”

The young dwarf settled against a rock in Bilbo’s line of sight. He was ruffled, wet and wary. He looked like a prince. A true prince of the people.

It made the dragon’s heart plunge with sadness.   

“Bilbo,” Ori interrupted suddenly. “Could you walk in the river to take the weight off a bit?”

The dragon blinked, “That might just work.”

…

The water was only deep enough near the centre, where the current was the most unhelpful, but it allowed them to make progress through the night and into the next day. The rain passed in the dark hours, to the relief of the dwarves. Bilbo remained chilled in the icy river; it was blessedly soothing on his wounds, but it sapped his energy and made him drowsy.

But the valley was not a simple track to follow – it branched off in different directions and Bilbo suspected the dwarves were picking which ones to follow at random. “Face it, we’re lost.”

“Nonsense. Uncle Thorin is leading the other group, we’re fine.”

There were far fewer goblins than Bilbo had expected from the rumours and the smell. They never called for reinforcements, never swarmed. His presence kept them wary, and while he had a feeling that was not the whole story, Bilbo had bigger things to dread. A rockslide loomed in their path, probably caused by the last storm. It was unstable and slippery. The dwarves managed with minimal swearing, but the dragon tried to get a grip with his hard scales and he knew this would not go well.

It didn’t matter if he dug in with his claws; the rocks moved. He couldn’t jump far with one back leg and without assistance from his wings, certainly not when he sank into the pile with every movement.

Bilbo could smell the pine trees on the other side. They’d almost put the peaks behind them. They were so _close._ Doubtlessly it was worse for the dwarves at the top; they could see the way out.

Tail lashing angrily, Bilbo was not ready to admit he couldn’t get over it. His latest slide dislodged a huge chunk of rock and sent it rolling and clattering, taking hundreds of smaller rocks along with it. Bilbo glared at it and started toppling rocks with purpose.

“It’s too large,” Bofur told him. “It’d take days to dig a path through this.” He hopped down, Bilbo guessed, to take a look from a different angle. But once on solid ground the dwarf moved off towards the valley walls. 

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked, confused.

“Searching the caves.” He sounded optimistic. Bilbo couldn’t help but hope; that was a side effect of being around Bofur. “This valley has been blocked and flooded often. The rock here is easily eroded; I’d bet my boots the river has carved other channels through the mountain.”

Another path. The dragon’s spirits lifted further, before crashing under reality. “It’d have to be a bloody big channel to fit me.”

“Aye, that is a problem. We’ll take a look and see which is easier to solve.”

“Cheer up,” Fíli said.

What choice did they have? It was only a matter of time. The quest must go on. Bilbo sighed. “You should go.”

“Bofur knows this stuff far better than I could ever hope to.”

“That way,” he tossed his head at the pile. “You still have some ways to go south before you meet the road. It is already noon.”

The prince scowled. The resemblance to his uncle had never been clearer. “Don’t insult me.”

Bilbo jerked back. “That was not my intention. Surely you want to keep moving?”

“Of course. But this is what Thorin would do.”

Somehow, the dragon doubted that. “Is that what’s stopping you? Responsibility? Don’t let it. Your uncle will be glad to see you, maybe doubly so if you leave me.”

“No. You heard Bofur; we’re not leaving you here.”

Coming from Bofur or Ori, Bilbo understood the sentiment to a point, but Fíli was barely an acquaintance.

“Why? I don’t understand. Is this honour or loyalty? Neither is reasonable, here. Leaving makes sense, you can get out right here and now. Words aren’t binding, they should be broken in some cases.”

“Not this case. Those weren’t empty words. This is not about what is easy or logical. It’s what’s right.”

That was an argument Bilbo had not encountered before. He didn’t know what to do with it.

…

Bofur found a crevasse with a promising breeze and walls that had been polished smooth by waterflow. It was large and just wide enough for Bilbo to squeeze through with minimal pain.

A few metres from the entrance, all light disappeared. Bilbo almost stepped on a dwarf when the lad paused suddenly.

“Alright, Ori?”

“Oh, yes, I just though I saw something.” The scribe hurried forward.

The dragon huffed. “How you can see much of anything down here is beyond me.”

“Well, we are a subterranean race, Bilbo.” The dragon got the distinct impression Ori was rolling his eyes.

A few moments later, his eyes adjusted, and he wondered. “Is it getting lighter?”

“Aye, there’s a cavern ahead,” Bofur supplied helpfully. They rounded the corner to find themselves in a large bowl, dimly lit by holes above their heads. A lake spanned the distance to the far wall. It was littered with shadows, but if any of them were passages, Bilbo couldn’t tell.

Thankfully, Bofur was in his element. He tapped the haft of his mattock against the rock in a few places, perhaps listening or feeling or something else entirely.

“Over there,” the miner pointed. Straight across the lake. Well that was annoying.

But Bilbo reminded himself that they were here for his benefit, and sat patiently in the water while the dwarves clambered onto his back.

The water got surprisingly deep. The dwarves had to scale his neck and hang onto his horns. Months ago, Bilbo had spent his days reading good books. He had been dignified, back then. Now he had dwarves crowding his forehead.

“When you tell this tale, later, you should forget this ever happened,” he warned them.

He waited unhappily in the cavern while they explored the exit for potential dragon access. He was restless with them out of reach. The goblins did not frequent this cavern often, but ahead their scent grew much stronger. His dwarves could be snatched away and he would be helpless to stop it.

At least he didn’t have to worry about them ditching him. He doubted anything sort of a direct order from Thorin would convince them to leave his side. Bilbo fully expected that order to come again, eventually. His presence was clearly against Thorin’s wishes, yet these dwarves would not leave him precisely because they were too loyal to their leader. 

That still did not make sense.

What was it about Thorin that inspired these dwarves to such measures? Bilbo had never felt himself effected, but he saw its influence everywhere. The Company believed in their leader in a way words and rallying speeches could not inspire. They would die for him, but status alone couldn’t account for that. They would follow him to ends of the earth, and it certainly wasn’t for his sense of direction.

A smell distracted him. It seemed familiar, but was unique enough that Bilbo couldn’t place it. Whatever it was, it was oozing terror and sulking in the background. He didn’t like it watching him.

“We’re in luck!” Ori came hurrying back. “It’ll be a bit tight, but there’s only one problem spot.”

By Bilbo’s standards, there was certainly more than one. More often than not, the dragon had to crawl on his belly and his wings scraped against walls. Each jostle drew out a whimper; his wounds had grown hot and throbbing.

His horns were the widest part on him, and unfortunately the path was usually taller than it was wide, forcing him to turn his head in several very uncomfortable ways to get them through.

He hoped the dwarves were right because going backwards would be even less elegant.

When he reached the dwarvish definition of ‘a problem spot’, he groaned. That was not a passage, that was a crack, a gash as wide as Bilbo might make with one of his claws.

Bofur was hard at work and the tunnel crumbled under the onslaught. After a few minutes, it was wide enough for a dwarf. Bilbo sighed and took a nap. With one horn imbedded in the floor and the other in the ceiling, he was sure to get a crick in his neck.

“Thief!”

Bilbo startled awake and crushed his wings into the ceiling. He roared in pain. Light footsteps raced up his back and Bilbo saw red – of all the _impertinent_ creatures – he’d tear it to pieces.  

The skeletal thing leapt off his head and Bilbo tried to crush it between his teeth, but he couldn’t move far enough.

Bombur hit it mid leap, Dwalin put an axe through its chest and gave Bofur a glare. “Hurry. We don’t want to get pinned in a spot like this.”

With a bit of effort and only one small rockslide, they made it out. The light was blinding after being in the dark so long, but that didn’t stop Dwalin’s annoyingly astute grumbling. “Now what?”


	6. On the path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has to decide who to follow. Head or heart.

“Have they passed his way?” Fíli asked and, once more, Bilbo shook his head. It throbbed painful, but everything did at this point. His legs occasionally shook, his tail dragged in the dust like a common lizard. The worry in the air was making him nauseous. The high pass was the shortest route through the mountains but there was no sign the rest of the Company had reached the end of it. There was no sign of them on the far side of the mountain at all.  

No one wanted to think about what that meant.

“We should follow it. They must’ve run into trouble,” Ori said, looking up the path.

The dwarves would have to do that alone, there was no way the dragon could walk those tracks. The idea did not sit well with Bilbo, nor the dwarves either if he was reading them correctly.

The sun was low in the sky, it would become dangerous to keep looking, soon.

A tiny brown insect hovered in front of him, then settled on his nose. Bilbo’s eyed widened at the touch of magic.

“Moth!” He announced inanely.

“What?” Dwalin grumbled, annoyed. For once Bilbo didn’t blame him. He endeavoured to make more sense.

The tiny creature took to the air and Bilbo hurried to track its haphazard path. “It’s a message from Gandalf. Follow it!”

It took them back the way they’d came. They must’ve just missed running into the others.

Typical.

…

The Company collided.

“Fíli!” Thorin roared, Kíli close behind. Somehow the blond prince withstood the royal barrage. Dwalin was yanked into the hug by his beard, Balin followed as soon as he arrived, and the pile was looking very unstable now. A shove from Dori as he passed was almost enough to topple it. Ori disappeared in Dori and Nori’s arms; the brothers refused to let go, even when it was Balin’s turn to cuddle the scribe. Beside them, Bifur tackled Bombur and Bofur, fiercely berating them for leaving his side.  

Family got first preference because they ran fastest. Dwarves were passed around, reassuring each other they were alive. Bilbo lost track after the first wave of affection, he focused on catching up.

Gandalf laughed, drawn in by the relief and joy, until he saw Bilbo. “Oh, my dear friend, what happened?”

“An unfortunately landing,” the dragon panted and collapsed at the wizard’s feet.

At the thump, Fíli’s head emerged above the huddle and worry worked its way back into proceedings. “Óin, take a look at Bilbo, he’s in a bad shape,” he ordered, sounding like a prince again.

“Oh dear,” said Dori as he stepped around for a closer look.

The swelling bulged his scales, the skin between them was dark purple. His wings looked like shredded curtains. With every injury he saw, Thorin’s frown deepened.

“Perhaps you should tell us what transpired,” Thorin said in a tone that was surprisingly neutral given the circumstances. Fíli nodded and started at the beginning. Kíli paled just remembering the fall.

Bilbo stopped listening.

“Wings on the ground, Bilbo. Quickly, we need to get further from the mountain before nightfall.” Gandalf ordered. “Master Óin, would you set the bones?”

Bilbo dug his claws deep into the dirt, bracing himself.

He growled when the first one was pulled. By the fifth he’d hewn the ground enough to satisfy the fussiest hobbit farmers. Every muscle was tensed to throw the dwarf off, but that would make a mess and he’d have to start again.

Seven. His tail twitch, bowling over an unlucky Nori.

Ten. Bofur and Bifur were trying to comfort him from afar, lest they end up as bruised as Nori. It was not very effective.

Gandalf hovered a hand over his ankle. Bilbo felt the power take root and the pain diminished to a low burn. The fractures did not knit, just yet, but they would in a few days’ time.

The worst came later. “These are crushed, Gandalf, they won’t heal by themselves.”

“You’ll find that dragons have a habit of exceeding expectations. Align them as best you can.”

Bilbo shrieked. Dark spots littered his vision. The wizard was following behind, soothing the aches and driving the heat away, but for every spot of white hot pain that dulled, five more flared up.

Bilbo panted, exhausted, by the time they were done. Still broken, still bruised, but his bones were pinned in the right places by whatever scrap was at hand and the pain was retreating. He thought he might be capable of standing, though the idea left a bad taste in his mouth.

There was a light weight between his eyes. He opened them and found himself swimming in Bifur’s black and grey hair.

Sudden silence crashed down as the Company turned to stare.

Bifur was mindful of his axe, but gave no indication he’d noticed the attention at all. He rumbled something very deeply, and with his forehead against Bilbo’s, the dragon felt the sincerity.  

“We heard you, your cries echoed up the cliff.” Bifur shuddered, pulling slightly on raised scales he could get his hands around. Bilbo went without resistance, pushing his head firmly into the small warm body that still smelt more of flowers than goblins. “We thought you all dead. Gandalf didn’t believe it. I am glad he was right.”

Bilbo held his breath as Bifur ran agile fingers over the fine scales on his nose, seemingly without thinking about it. The dwarf’s mouth was a harsh line, but he smiled with the loose set of his shoulders and the look in his eye.

“Thank you, for protecting them,” he gestured, and Bilbo’s gaze follow his hand. The Company stood around them. As Bilbo’s eyes rested on them, Balin agreed with a solemn nod. Nori bowed, fist over heart. Kíli, Dori and half a dozen others considered this a sound move and followed suit.

“My family –” Bofur was beaming. Bombur hid a smile in his moustache.

“My prince –” propping his brother and uncle up on either side, Fíli winked.  

“And my friends.” Even Dwalin met his gaze evenly.

The dragon was sure he’d never felt like this. His heart was filled to bursting as this rough, incredibly kind dwarf accepted him in a way hardly anyone ever had. He wanted to curl around Bifur and protect him from the world, but didn’t want to ever move from this moment, which he suspected had a level of significance he didn’t yet understand.

He realised he was purring.

…

Bilbo whipped around with a deadly snarl long before the dwarves sensed something was wrong. But wargs were not subtle beasts. A howl sounded off the mountain and countless more followed. That was a hunting pack had caught their scent.

“Lads, something is scheming against us,” Bofur swore as they started running. “The Valar maybe!”

Bilbo sorely missed his wings. With them, the orcs wouldn’t get ten paces. The ground was uneven and steep, but he could now put weight on his shoulder and the use of three legs allowed him to cover distance in long bounds, many of which sent him careering into trees. The forest did not pull through too well.

Bilbo heard racing paws just behind him – the forward pack. He slowed and spun to face them. The dwarves rushed between his legs, the wargs on their heels. The dragon’s furious roar shook the forest. They would learn – puppies do not hunt dragons. Not even grounded dragons.

He darted forward and crushed one between his jaws. Its partner whimpered in fear, and a swipe of his claws sent it flying. Wargs were somewhere between a large pony and a horse in size, or from an alternative perspective, somewhere between a snack and a light meal.

The rest of the pack fell upon him, their nerve bolstered by their numbers and speed. They barked and growled, creating a spine tingling racket, as they darted in to bite him or leapt to attack his neck and back. They were quick and Bilbo was easily outmanoeuvred. For every one he hit, two got away. Infuriating. A powerful sweep of his tail smashed through orcs and trees alike.

He barely noticed through his fury at first, the way the wargs would slink off, or their orc riders would direct them away. He thought them typical, cowardly, but they weren’t running away; they were running _ahead_.

He smelt fire, he smelt fear. Bilbo turned and trampled through their ranks, further down the slope, after his dwarves. The wargs kept pace with him, snapping at his ankles, hanging off his hide by their teeth. A needless distraction.

A burning wall separated the orcs from the edge of the cliff. Bilbo charged with a bellow and the monsters scattered.

Beyond the flames, his dwarves hung for dear life. He needed to get them off that tree. There was no time to fight the orcs.

He dropped to his stomach, his ribs protested, and leaned over the edge. The fire was uncomfortably warm. He ignored it.

With no small amount of panic, he realised he couldn’t reach them all. Bilbo shoved his nose under Dwalin’s dangling legs and boosted him onto the trunk. “Pull up the others!”

Bifur was the next closet, Thorin just past him. But their leader didn’t need help, he’d drawn his sword and was running down the trunk.

“Thorin!” Balin yelled, struggling to hold on. At his brother’s call, Dwalin spun. He took in whatever was happing behind Bilbo and swore, rushing past Bilbo so quickly he almost slipped.

Balin and Glóin were the last Bilbo could reach. Bifur was helping the others, Bilbo had to trust that. He forced himself to turn his back on them.  

Thorin, struggling to regain his footing. Dwalin between his king and a white warg, fending off a mace. He’d picked up Thorin’s shield, but even then, all he could do was keep the orc at bay. They were outmatched. The white orc had huge reach, the dwarves couldn’t get close enough to the warg to kill it.

“Filth! You _dare_ ,” Bilbo hissed. Several orcs startled at the malice in his voice. Oh, he yearned to torch the mountain side, to put the natural fire to shame. But fire was a dangerous beast, with no allegiance. “These lives are not yours to take, not today nor any day.”

The inferno bubbled up his throat and he held it in his mouth. Burning saliva dripped from his jaws, sending flares of sparks when they hit the ground.

It was a daunting threat. And thanks to many hours of bored fidgeting that he now felt he could justify as practice, Bilbo didn’t ruin the effect by burning his own tongue.

He locked eyes with the white warg. It froze, tail between its legs. The orc kicked it, but the mongrel barely flinched. Separated from its weak-willed pack, paralysed in the focused attention of a fearsome predator, it was blind to all else.

In his peripherals, Bilbo saw Orcrist flash. He grinned.

Crippled, the warg collapsed. It’s rider barely managed to role free without Dwalin taking off its foul head. The orc’s scream of rage reminded the terrified pack that they feared their leader more than the chance of swift death.  

“Baruk Khazâd!” The Company charged the advancing orcs beside their king. It was anyone’s guess which side roared louder.

Bilbo stepped hesitantly into the fray. Below him was a writhing carpet of friend and foe. His great size was not an advantage here; one wrong motion would throw dwarves from the narrow clifftop.

But they were badly outnumbered, several already bore injuries from the mountains and a few were still stranded in the tree. Dwalin had been limping since the crash landing, Thorin wasn’t drawing breath easily, a warg had bitten Bofur before Fíli could kill it. 

Bilbo smashed a foot down between Nori and a warg and to his surprise the dwarf didn’t stumble; he leapt on Bilbo’s hand and used the extra height to knock an orc clear off its mount.

Kíli ducked under his tail, Fíli used the dragon’s leg as a shield, in a tight spot. His movements didn’t perturb them, they fought around him like was one of their own.

The dragon got bolder, moved faster, and the dwarves kept up.

All kept an eye on the leaders. Even without his warg, the white orc was a force the dwarves struggled to match.

Bilbo saw it coming before they did. Dwalin would overextend his injured arm if he had any hope of dodging that blow. Thorin would rush in to grapple because if he didn’t the next blow would come down on Dwalin’s head, but that clawed hand was swinging, ready to maim, and Thorin would have to brace and pray.

When the inevitable happened, and Dwalin stumbled, realisation dawned in them all. But by then, Bilbo was already moving. He lunged, Thorin ducked, and the orc’s smirk was interrupted. The bladed mace hit Bilbo squarely in the jaw with enough force to turn his head, which was the deciding factor between flying orc and chewed orc. The head-butt was still deeply satisfying.

Thorin lifted Orcrist furiously, and charged.

He was plucked from earth.  

And that, Bilbo had not seen coming.

There was a suddenly flurry of feathers as the flock of eagles descended. Some part of him knew they were friends of Gandalf’s, but a much larger, much _angrier_ part only noticed talons as long as his own clutching his companions like mice.

He roared and snapped at the birds, but before the echoes had faded, they were gone, leaving the flightless dragon alone with orcs and wargs and his spiking blood pressure.

The white orc, picking itself up, jeered something in black speech. It grated his ears. More intelligent orcs started deserting the force.

His rage burned hotter than he ever remembered. “You should have stayed in the cracks with the rats and the roaches.”

…

At dawn, the dragon nosed through the ashes. He snapped up a singed warg. The flies were gathering, the smell of burnt fur was atrocious, but it was food. He didn’t expect to see more for a long time. Without his wings, the idea of stalking was comical. He could go without food for a time, but he would be slowly starving, not fasting. Hibernating was not exactly affiliated with his current mobile lifestyle. By the time the membrane healed he’d be halfway through the Greenwood, and the pickings on the far side were notoriously sparse.

Bofur’s promise rang hollowly in his ears. Intentionally or not, they’d left him. He didn’t know where they were or how far ahead; at this point his chances of catching them were low at best. He could make his own way to the mountain, and only hope he made it by the last day of autumn.

Just to face a dragon at the end of it.

It was a stupid mission.

And why? For a few friends surrounded by dwarves that barely tolerated him, led by a larger-than-life king that would be glad to be rid of him.

Home was behind, but it was not out of reach just yet. He could return to the land that called his heart. It was a shorter trip. Elrond would heal him, good as new. He could eat and rest, and being comfortable would smooth things out until life without the dwarves felt normal again.

One day, tales of the death of Smaug and the return of the king might even trickle down to his neck of the woods.

The right choice was very clear. The dragon snorted ruefully, and started limping down the mountain, towards the rising sun.

He would be at that blasted mountain on Durin’s Day. If they were not there to meet him, he would drag them kicking and screaming from the Halls of Mandos himself.

…

Bilbo didn’t go far. He’d made many stupid choices recently, but he wasn’t that far gone yet. The ache had returned to his shoulder and joints. He made as much progress as he could, knowing that he would be even stiffer the next day. He would rest, then, and hopefully the lingering effects of Gandalf’s magic would help him recover quickly. He hadn’t slept in days, he couldn’t afford to injure himself further. He wouldn’t be able to reset his bones if he messed them up.

Knowing the sensible course of action, however, did not make him feel any better about it. His weakness was infuriating. He had to move, inefficiently, _ponderously_. How land bound creatures put up with this all the time, he did not know. But he would have to get used to it; his wings had more holes than Bungo’s doilies.

He settled in a sheltered spot and forced himself to take some much-needed rest. When night fell, the goblins swarmed out of the mountain like an upset hornets’ nest. Their numbers were beyond counting. He burnt them by the dozen until they deigned to leave him alone.

He sat around the flames and turned his mind back to a nicer evening, Bofur’s singing, Bombur’s stew, Glóin’s snoring.

Traveling along was quiet, dull, anxious work. It felt strange without the dwarves and their sturdy presence after being with them so long. He’d even welcome a glare, at this point. That might be a symptom.

He was almost inclined to call the hollow feeling loneliness, but dragons weren’t susceptible such things. Surely, he just missed the diversion the chatter brought. The day passed without Ori’s poetry, Balin’s history or Kíli’s awful rock puns to interrupt the monotony. Hours dragged by just as slowly as the land passed beneath his feet. He felt every minute and every mile. Occasionally he’d see the river in the distance, imperceptivity getting closer.

It gave him too much time to stew over the possibilities and calculations.

Distances didn’t hold the same weight when he could rise high enough to see the entire length of the Misty Mountains stretch from one horizon to another. Walking demanded a new perspective, one entirely dependent on speed; particularly a lack thereof.

He was making slower progress than he’d predicted. He kept having to plan routes around obstacles that should have been beneath his notice entirely.

The dwarves were goodness knows how far ahead, and moving as fast if not faster than the dragon. Even if he knew which path they planned to take through Mirkwood, he’d never catch up to them before they’d reach it. It would be even worse inside; the trees were infamously dense, he had to assume that would slow him down considerably. Bilbo might miss Durin’s day entirely if he took the Forest Road. He could arrive on time with the Elf-road, if he could find it. If he crossed Mirkwood anywhere else, he’d risk losing his way.

He needed to spend as little time between the trees as possible. Perhaps it would be faster to go further north, cut east through the forest until he reached the river and follow it down through Thranduil’s Kingdom. It would be much wider than the elf road. That could work. It flowed into the Long Lake, the current would be on his side.

Filling in the details of a plan made Bilbo feel a bit better.

…

The plan worked perfectly, for a few days. No unforeseen circumstances, no additional setbacks. Bilbo left the foothills for the open fields that ran beside the Anduin and followed the river north. His broken ankle improved steadily, and he put weight on it for a little longer each day. A little over a week after his injury, he could run for brief stretches.

But then Bilbo crossed a familiar scent that caused an unforeseen setback. Those usually came along with Gandalf, truth be told.

The traces were only a few days old, and it should have been something to celebrate, but the wizard was alone, heading in the wrong direction, and riding with purpose.

_Why?_ This wasn’t the plan. Why had he left he dwarves? Were they well? It could only mean that Gandalf had come across something he had not expected, and he deemed it more dangerous than any horror in Mirkwood or Smaug.

But what could be more urgent than the quest?

Unless… it _was_ relevant to the quest; the broader quest that Gandalf kept to himself, something about saving the north from falling into shadow. Something that would put his dwarves in more danger.

Damn it, Gandalf. Bilbo turned west, fuming. He’d better not be heading back to the Shire.

…

The rocky foothills slowed the horse considerably. Gandalf had pulled ahead in the open, but now Bilbo was catching up. Gandalf set his horse loose not much later, so he must have been close to his destination, but the dragon couldn’t image what the wizard wanted with this place. There was no pass through the mountains. There was not much of anything. It was a barren, unpleasant land, and it stank of wizardly business.

“Bilbo, just in time. I may need your help yet,” a welcome voice called. The dragon bounded forward over the large boulders blocking Gandalf from his view.

He dropped down in front of his friend with a huge grin. “How do you always know?” The wizard didn’t smile, he didn’t look well at all. Bilbo’s good mood froze over. This was more serious than he’d thought. “What happened?”

“Evil is gathering,” Gandalf announced gravely. Anxiety was pouring off him. “The signs are getting bolder, it is closing in on the north. I fear it is nearly ready.”

“For what?” Bilbo didn’t really want to know.

“I intend to find out. But first, I have a suspicion I hope to prove wrong.” He set out, using his staff to help him over the uneven ground. “You must not follow me any further,” he said firmly, meeting Bilbo’s gaze for a long moment. “There is strong magic and stronger evil here. I will be back by nightfall.”

Bilbo sighed and lay his head on a high rock. Gandalf approached a series of steps built into the sheer cliff. The dragon watched bitterly as he was left behind, again.

He could have given waiting alone a try, to see if it would grow on him, but soon after Gandalf left, his solitude was broken in the worst way possible.

Bilbo felt like the mysterious great evil had suddenly descended upon him, delivered in the paws of bunnies.

Radagast.

The dragon ducked behind a boulder.  

“Oh dear, oh dear, what in the world happened to you?”

Apparently, there really was no point trying to hide from a wizard. Even an addled one.

The Brown rushed over and immediately began poking at things that Bilbo did not appreciate being prodded. He danced away with an angry hiss. One of the rabbits gave a scandalised snort.

“Don’t take that tone with me, I don’t have long, Gandalf is expecting me.” Excellent. Bilbo wished him haste. Radagast paused. “Although, if he’s returning for you, this is a good a spot to meet as any other.”

Drat.

“Oh,” Radagast crouched by his back leg and scratched his head thoughtfully. Bird poop flaked off under his nails. Bilbo eyed it like a hawk. That hand had better not go anywhere near his lovely scales. “This is Gandalf’s work. Not the finest example of healing I’ve seen; I told him he didn’t study creatures enough.”

Bilbo grit his teeth. Radagast fussed over each injury, but they did feel better. The dragon was eventually persuaded to lower his wings.

The bones were still in bad shape, but the braces had kept them straight while they started to mend. A lot of the membrane had grown back already. Unfortunately, the rope and improvised bandages that encircled the splints was preventing the pieces stitching together properly. In some cases, the dwarves had wrapped his torn membrane around the bone for extra support, but Bilbo was trying not to think about that.

He needed the braces off as soon as possible, and Radagast, surprisingly, seemed to know what he was doing. “I met a bat just the other month who had an encounter with an owl. I set him right in no time. That was much fiddlier work than this, just you wait.”

…

“Radagast. I’m glad you could come. Things are far more serious than we realised.” Gandalf was frighteningly pale.

“What is this about?” Radagast asked, leaving Bilbo’s side at last. “This is not a nice place to meet.”

Gandalf’s eyes flicked over the dragon with consideration. “The Nine are no longer contained,” he revealed.

Bilbo gaped, surely not. That dark story had ended.

Radagast said something very uncouth in the language of the birds before he got a hold of himself. “Why now, Gandalf?”

“They must have been summoned to Dol Guldor,” he leaned heavily on his staff, looking older than ever. “It was no accident that the wraith you met in the fortress wielded that blade.”

Words escaped Radagast for a moment, his mouth opened soundlessly. “But it cannot be the Necromancer! A human sorcerer could not summon such evil.”

“Who said it is human?”

Radagast paused.

Bilbo’s mind was drawing unpleasant conclusions.

Gandalf stared into the gathering fog, and wondered if they’d ever seen clearly. “The Nine only answer to one master. We’ve been blind, Radagast, and in our blindness the enemy has returned.”

“No,” the dragon denied with vigorous shake of his head. “If he is summoning his servants, that means the orcs after Thorin are _His_.”

“Yes,” Gandalf whispered. “Azog the Defiler is no ordinary hunter. He is a commander of legions. The enemy is preparing for war. It will begin in the East, his mind is set upon that mountain.”

The air was heavy. Bilbo couldn’t move. Each breath settled in the bottom of his chest, cold and hard. Their misfortune had been no accident, and they hadn’t seen the worst of it yet.

“Come Bilbo, quickly,” Gandalf had moved ahead, Bilbo hadn’t noticed.

“Where are you going?” Radagast called out fretfully.

The other wizard’s reply was quick and gruff. “To join the others. I cannot forsake them, they are in grave danger.”

“The _world_ is in grave danger,” Radagast pointed out, choosing the wrong time to start being reasonable. “The power in that fortress will only grow stronger.”

Bilbo’s tail lashed out in his anger, reducing a boulder to rubble. “You want Gandalf to sacrifice the Company.” There was no ‘us’ in this matter. Bilbo made it quite clear that his position was unnegotiable.

The wizards were quiet under his furious eyes, and too wary to have had innocent thoughts. Gandalf would go with Radagast, he realised in the small part of his mind that was not a raging inferno. His friends had split up; he couldn’t protect all of them. The dwarves were more vulnerable and unprepared, but even Gandalf could not fight an army alone, let alone wraiths and necromancers.

If Gandalf fell, the enemy would move unopposed, and the forces would fall on the dwarves. If the threat wasn’t defeated beforehand, Bilbo needed to be there. But the fastest way to the dwarves was by air, and the fastest way to heal was to jump through the wizards’ hoops.

And if he could drag the wizard back on track, all the better.

“How quickly can you repair my wings.”

…

Bilbo was forced to try to keep pace with the rabbit sled and undo all the northward progress he’d made.

He would drag his exhausted arse to the wizards at night, they would work more magic into his bones, and he would set out early for a head start. He was not getting the rest Radagast had prescribed, to say the least. Some days it felt like the strenuous exercise did more harm than the wizards could fix.

 “Think of it as training, as building muscle to fight Smaug,” Gandalf suggest unhelpfully.

“I was in perfect fighting shape before your quest ruined it,” Bilbo reminded him testily. He’d been burning a lot of energy and hungry made him grumpy. Those rabbits were looking mighty appealing.

But they passed the Carrock, and the braces started coming off. The dodgy spots in the membrane were patched over with fresh pink skin.

They were closer to Dol Guldur than not by the time Bilbo roared his approval and threw himself into the sky once more.

He landed, feeling lighter than he had in weeks, but with less time to waste than ever. He ushered the wizards onto his back and picked up the sled, because the fastest way to get himself and Gandalf back to the dwarfs was to burn Dol Guldur to the ground.

They’d already been apart for a month. Eru only knew what trouble the dwarves had managed to fall into in that time.


	7. Mirkwood stinks

Mirkwood was despicable. It was bad enough flying over it, but Bilbo had to land sometime. Not only did he have to sleep and rest, but an incoming dragon lacked a certain subtly that the situation in Dol Guldur required.  

The Old Forest near the Shire had been an interesting place, but slow to forgive the damage Bilbo had once caused it. This forest had none of that charming personality; it was pure malevolence. Poison had seeped in, sickening the plants and animals, driving away anything sensible and driving mad anything that remained. Despair hung in the thick and stagnant air.

It only got worse as they travelled further in. Bilbo’s great nose worked against him. Levels of the toxin that would make the wizards dizzy, made the dragon retch. The strength of it almost laid him out. The only one remotely comfortable was Radagast. Although the brown wizard was frantic about the state of the forest, he was as lucid as ever. Bilbo suspected he had practice inhaling worse substances.

“I could burn this place to the ground,” Bilbo sighed wistfully. “Would it be such a loss? A good cleansing and a fresh start is just what this horrid place needs.”

“Do not tempt me.” Gandalf’s grumbled agreement surprised Bilbo. He’d been needling for a scolding, just so he could yell back. He’d never seem the wizard so disconcerted. “But it would be most unwise to attract attention in these parts.”

Bilbo conceded that point. The harmless animals were nasty enough.

A squirrel spat and hissed at the wizards as they passed. The critter puffed out and nearly shat itself when Bilbo hissed back.

…

“How are you feeling, Bilbo?” Gandalf was concerned. The dragon had stopped complaining hours ago.

Up ahead, Bilbo did not answer. His black mood spoke for itself.

Radagast tutted. “His body is healed. He only suffers a sickness of the soul, now.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows lifted to brush his hat. “You miss them.”

Bilbo was startled out of his silence. “I do not.”

The grey wizard gave that lie all the acknowledgment it deserved. “I did not think I would live to see you so attached. You did not get so distracted when Belladonna went travelling.”

“Belladonna wasn’t chased by orcs into a bewitched forest.”

Bilbo worried for his dwarves, facing the forest and all its horrors alone, hundreds of miles away without their ponies and packs. Of course he did. But that did not explain the full extent of his feelings. There was something else and Bilbo couldn’t put his finger on it.

“How were they when you saw them last? Are you sure they gathered enough supplies?”

“As I said,” Gandalf signed. “Beorn provided them with enough food to see them through the forest.”

“The one who threatened them. I remember,” Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “But do they have flint? Blankets? Bandages? Dwalin was injured. Describe his wound to me again.”

“They were sound of body and mind, Bilbo. Except for their worry for you,” Gandalf tossed over his shoulder as he navigated a shallow ravine.

“For me?” the dragon blinked, taking the ravine in a single stride and lifting the sled over with barely a thought. Radagast clung to it with a startled squeak.

Gandalf ducked as the dangling rabbits passed over his head. “Well, Bifur was inconsolable, at first. Bofur tried to pick a fight with an eagle to get her to turn around. Ori did the same, but much more diplomatically.”

“Oh yes, I suppose they would,” Bilbo felt warm just remembering how they’d stood by him in the Misty Mountains.

“And Nori expressed his concern for your health. Fíli raised the notion of waiting for you to catch up.”

Bilbo snorted.  _That_  would have gone over well –

“The idea was supported by Kíli, Nori, Dori, Bombur and Dwalin.”

The dragon spluttered.

“Balin did not object, although he was concerned you would not reach them in time to scale Erebor on Durin’s day. Neither did Thorin.”

“What?” Bilbo turned sharply. “ _Thorin_? Don’t torment me, wizard, what do you mean?”

“Thorin was against leaving you behind. In the end, he made the decision to continue based on the need to stay ahead of the orcs. He called you a member of the Company,” Gandalf shared, with that infernal twinkle in his eye. “I daresay, when he let it slip he looked about as startled as you do now.”

…

“They are still on your mind.”

The wind was whipping by so fast that Bilbo felt safe admitting it. “They are always on my mind.”

As the gloom set in, Bilbo found his thoughts drawn more often to the dwarves. They were a spark of brightness he carried with him.

…

“I just find the dwarves… curious,” Bilbo admitted when they stopped for the night. Radagast had wandered off. He was even harder to keep track of than Bilbo’s regular wizard, but he could have been right next to them for all Bilbo knew. It was unnerving how quickly their surroundings were swallowed up by the fog. It was unnatural – a clear sign that they were getting close to Dol Guldur. The fortress wasn’t in sight yet, but they kept their voices hushed as if it was hanging over them.

“Curious?” Gandalf chuckled. “I suppose they continue to surprise you. Dwarves are not at all like hobbits.”

“No,” Bilbo agreed. “They have a deep need to improve their technology, their communities, their skills. They are never content with what they have. It is – ambition?”

“Elves would call it greed.”

“No, greed is selfish. From what I have seen, the loyalty dwarves have for each other is stronger than each dwarfs’ loyalty to himself. A refreshing contrast to the race of men, I find. That is not what I expected,” Bilbo mused.

“Your stories misled you,” Gandalf said.

“They do not do the dwarves justice. I knew they originated from men and elves, and could not be a whole picture, but there was so much consensus… but it is a poor reflection," Bilbo frowned. "The isolation the dwarves impose on themselves is part of the problem. We never hear their side because they do not share it. In the void, they are coloured by misunderstandings.”

“Of course your solution would be to tell more stories,” Gandalf reprimanded gently. “It is a complex cultural issue, inflamed by a their recent refugee crisis. It will not be solved as easily as that.”

“Would it not? Hatred and distrust only exist in ignorance. With communication, leading to understanding, ignorance is impossible. It may not be flawless, but while we wait for the perfect solution, the problem continues. They do not deserve the stigma. There is a greatness to dwarves. These dwarves in particular.”

“Greatness. Now there is a loaded term. In what sense do you mean it?”

Bilbo blinked. “Great people – legends, I suppose. Not just warriors and kings. Legends can come from anywhere. Tinkerers, toymakers. That’s not what matters.”

“But legends are only a small proportion of great people. Most do not become renown,” Gandalf countered. “What if the Company had never formed – do you think Bifur would be any less of a dwarf, if only a few dozen individuals ever knew his name?”

“Of course not.” The idea that Bifur, a dwarf who deserved to be immortalised in sonnets, might’ve never featured in a story made Bilbo’s skin crawl.

“It happens, Bilbo. Not all good will be immortalised. Not all evil will be acknowledged,” Gandalf sighed. “I’ve told you before – life doesn’t exist in your books. Do you understand it yet?”

“I’m beginning to.”

Gandalf didn’t look convinced.

Bilbo didn’t either.

Thankfully, the wizard let the issue drop. He filled his pipe and steered them back to safer waters. “But legends: the greatness that coincides with power. Thorin II son of Thrain should have been born to it. The throne was his birthright, but without crown and kingdom, he made greatness of his own. He should have been powerful, and he still is, in a way, but instead of commanding courts and armies, Oakenshield commands hearts,” Gandalf said, lighting his pipe with a flick of his fingers. “That is the most dangerous kind of leader.”

“Dangerous?” Bilbo didn’t know where Gandalf was going with this.

The wizard hummed. “There are many types of greatness, after all. Tyrants and heroes are indistinguishable, apart from the things they inspire other people to do.”

“I suppose there is merit in that,” Bilbo agreed after a moment.  

“I have watched many people over the years, curious what kind they will turn out to be. You were born to be great. As a dragon you could be nothing less. But you shaped it into your own flavour.”

Bilbo snorted. “That wasn’t a choice.”

“Not one, no. Hundreds of decisions made you who you are now. And the choices you make today will make you a slightly different person tomorrow. So it will go on, every day, and I have confidence that more often than not, those choices will be good,” Gandalf declared. “There are many horrors and wonders in this world, but it is the choices people make when under pressure that gives me hope. They may struggle with evil, yes, but most people struggle  _against_  it.”

…

Dol Guldur was a dump. Bilbo was not impressed.

“It looks completely abandoned,” Radagast said.

“It smells abandoned,” Bilbo confirmed. “Even the sickness is lessened here.”

“It would appear that way,” Gandalf grunted. “A spell of concealment lies over this place. The enemy is not yet ready to reveal himself,” he trailed off thoughtfully. Then, with a decisive nod, “We must force his hand. Radagast, carry a message to the Lady Galadriel.”

Bilbo new that tone. “You mean to enter. I’m going with you.”

“I would be tempted if you were an elf, dwarf or even a hobbit. While they are resistant to evil and magic, unfortunately your kind are susceptible to both. I would hate to see your pride corrupted and your purpose twisted.”

The dragon growled.

“No!” Gandalf booked no argument. “Promise you will remain behind.”

“It is a trap,” Bilbo insisted.

“Undoubtedly.”

…

Bilbo paced. It had been too long. Only the occasional bubble of grey magic told Bilbo the wizard was still alive. Something was gathering in the air; a kind of tension. The dragon hoped it was just the spell lifting.

His tail lashed angrily, shattering a tree with barely any resistance. The forest was dead to its roots. There was not enough life in the soil to cause proper decay. Instead of rotting, the trees just bowed to wind and time, slowly crumbling.

Another pulse of magic. This time it was different. The smell hit him before the bubble did. An overwhelming stench of orcs and wargs and unnatural sickness sent him reeling. It clogged his nose and throat, and stung his eyes.

There was a twang of heavy siege equipment. A dozen chains appeared out of thin air, mere metres from the dragon, flipping end over end. They smashed into him, the force of it knocked him off his feet. He struggled to stand – chains coiled around his neck and tail, they pinned one wing to his side. In the next heartbeat, scores of orcs descended upon him. They brought ropes and hooks and arrows, and tried to pin him down.

From under a writhing mass of orcs, the dragon saw red.

The gang attempting to muzzle him were reduced to ash. Great sweeps of his neck and tail sent dozens flying. His horns ploughed through anything his fire missed, while his legs flailed and started working free. Arrogant little cretins, to think that they could hold a dragon! He flung them off like they were insects.

A screech sent chills down Bilbo’s spine. He knew that sound. It was a pitch dragons had been designed to heed. It had been burnt so deeply into his ancestors that Bilbo heard it in his dreams.  

The wraiths emerged from the gloom, armed with blades he could not block and ghostly bonds. The orcs had never hoped to hold him long, Bilbo realised, they just needed to trip him long enough for the Nine to secure those chains and he would never break free.

He felt fear. The wraiths revelled in it, approaching leisurely just to draw it out.

Fire. The stories claimed their weakness was fire. The wraiths had surrounded him. He could only blast one at a time and they were quick – almost too quick to hit – but the dry forest would go up like a field of straw. It would save him.

Bilbo turned his flames to the trees. The wood spluttered and hissed, it spewed out terrible black smoke, but it did not burn. His heart stuttered, he wanted to panic, but he didn’t have time.

Smoke. Fine. He would take smoke in a pinch.

He rolled to his feet, blasted the path clear. Orcs still clung to the chains but he didn’t care, he dragged them with him. His back legs were hobbled, so he leapt. Trees sailed by and the smoke covered his retreat. He twisted and shook his wing desperately, trying to extract it from the chain around his chest.

The chains and ropes snagged on trees and rocks, slowing him down, but the snags were tugging them loose. The bonds around his legs slid down. He stumbled, kicked them off, and then he opened his stride.

The Nine were all around him. They were faster. A wraith flashed in the corner of his eye. It should’ve picked the other side. Bilbo flung out his wing and flattened the monster. The membrane caught the wind and Bilbo turned sharply, taking another wraith by surprise.

They fell back, either to climb his tail or – no, they were waiting – there was a cliff ahead, they would move to cut off his escape.

They overestimated his survival instinct. He would take death before enslavement. But he wouldn’t settle for either if he could help it. With the wraiths more distant, he could expose his neck to turn his head over his shoulder. The chains were hopelessly tangled. The orcs had woven in ropes and tied it off to stop it slipping. Mind working quickly, the dragon soaked his own back with fire. By Eru it hurt, but the ropes snapped. He bit and tugged, lifting the chains just far enough. His wing slid free and Bilbo wasted no time, his next step took him into the sky.

Arrows and angry shrieking followed him, but he soon rose above even that.  

…

Bilbo’s heart was racing, his legs were trembling, and he didn’t expect it to stop any time soon. If he was worth the Nine, he hated to imagine what Gandalf faced. His imagination was a horrible thing, it came up with plenty of ideas, and the scene below provided ample inspiration.

An army was spread out beneath him. Thousands of orcs, hundreds of wargs, trolls and war machines. The forges were lit, the forces had started to move north. The black plague from Dol Guldur was spreading.

The fortress itself felt worse than the forest ever had. It was a far more solid, palpable evil. It flashed and thundered with light and dark. Bilbo could feel the power from hundreds of metres away. The magic made his scales stand on end.

It started to glow red hot, and an entire tower was blasted away by a giant flame. Bilbo had only a second to wonder if that meant Gandalf had won. Then the darkness hit him like a stone giant and Bilbo could barely stay airborne. 

The darkness seeped through his scales. It crooned in his ears. It reached into his being until it could taste his deepest desires. At the dragon’s core, was his hoard; a collection of memories, all of them stories, most of them not his own. But in the centre, the most precious of treasures, were stories Bilbo had helped make himself.

Belladonna Baggins, an adventurer brave enough to charge a dragon with a pitchfork. Hamfast Gamgee, a dedicated father that asked a dragon to teach his children to read. The Grey Wizard, a meddler who started each quest seeking advice from his dear but most unexpected friend. Elrond, a noble lord who opened his house to even the largest guests. Bifur, an old dwarf who took a blow to save a king, but prefers to give things instead. Thorin Oakenshield, a legend still unfurling, just waiting to be seen.

The darkness flicked through the treasures, looking for anything it could use, and it took from them Bilbo’s greatest weakness. It made him feel more strongly than he’d ever experienced, to the exclusion of all reason. It appealed to his greed, his fear, his hope, his vanity. It dangled hundreds of stories before his eyes like the juiciest of offerings.

It turned his mind.

He became a beast, a thing of impulse and desire. He  _wanted_ , with all this being. It overruled his self-control and reason. The darkness played with the dragon's emotions and used them to tug him along to His every whim. The darkness turned his fear away from the Nine and replaced it with reckless fury instead. Bilbo wanted to charge them down - those spectres waiting for him on the clifftop with open arms.

But twist as it might, the darkness could not change his heart.

Bilbo felt fury, yes, he was furious he and Gandalf had been parted from the Company. He despaired for the quest if they faced Smaug alone. He was greedy to hear more of Bofur’s jokes and Balin’s grumbles. He feared for their lives. He hoped to see them again. He would cherish a single anecdote from Bifur more than a thousand other stories. He turned around.

The Nine paused, confused.

He needed to return to his dwarves, but first, he needed his wizard.

Gandalf had been dragged to a cage and strung up in view of the bridge. It must have been bait for the White Council, because the forces weren’t ready for Bilbo. The dragon smashed through orcs and stone, he grasped the cage and ripped the chain from the ground. His wings carried them unerringly towards Erebor.

…

 “–bo!” The dragon shook his head to rid it of the annoying buzzing. “Bilbo!”

“Gandalf?” he blinked. It was like a fog lifting. They were above Mirkwood, flying hard.

“Bilbo,” the wizard repeated for the hundredth time, relieved. “You are back.”

“I am,” he realised. That had been too close. It had not been a mishap, it had been a  _situation_. “Never again. No more wizard business.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible. We must find Radagast.”

Bilbo groaned.

“Don’t take that tone with me. I must tell him of what we face immediately.”

…

The darkness had encroached even on the brown wizard’s home. Giant spider webs clung to the wood. The sunlight didn’t pierce the canopy as much as it should.

Animals scattered at the sound of an approaching dragon and Radagast came running as Bilbo landed in the clearing. A hedgehog rolled into a little ball of terror.

“Bilbo, Gandalf, this is a surprise – what in the world are you doing in that thing?” he asked Gandalf, much the same way he would if a squirrel got stuck in a birdfeeder.

Gandalf huffed. “I, for one, would prefer to get out of it.”

“Oh! Of course, of course.” 

As Radagast struggled with the cage, Bilbo sniffed the hedgehog curiously. They didn’t have any in the Shire. “I don’t suppose there’s anything around here I can eat?” he wondered, inadvisably.

The look Radagast gave him dared him to try.

Bilbo decided he wasn’t  _that_  hungry. He was, however, impatient. “Come now Gandalf, we must hurry. Thorin must be warned.”

“Indeed, he must. But I cannot go with you,” he turned to Radagast. “It is worse than I ever feared. Sauron has regained form, he is building his forces. All he needs now is the ring. It will wake, now that he has coalesced. He will have strength beyond that of the Council if it falls into his possession, we must act now.”

Radagast was speechless and Bilbo was dismayed, but Gandalf wasn’t done dispensing bad news.

“Ori came to me at Beorn’s. He found a simple gold ring in the Misty Mountains. He wanted to fashion a quill nub out of it, but it was entirely unworkable. Upon placing it in the fire, it showed a script he could not recognise, and I had not seen in an age. I thought then that it was enchanted, perhaps even one of their Seven. Now, I fear it may be far worse.”

The dragon’s mind was racing through everything he knew about the rings. There was nothing good.

“The dwarves must keep it with them, it is the only option. We must know where it is until we can determine exactly what it is. Dwarves are strong, they can carry it safely enough, but it will do no favours to the minds of anyone near it. You are at the most risk, Bilbo, but you will be fine for a few weeks, if you do not touch it.” He levelled the dragon with a serious look. “I will be on the Overlook on Durin’s day. Do not enter Erebor without me. It is now more imperative than ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot of fiddling and then Gandalf came along and stole the show. Tell me what you thought about it?


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